The Arc of Fire
by Shane Lutz
Summary: When old friends and enemies of Comte de Saint-Germain and Joan of Arc come back from the past, they threaten their present...and future. They have only one choice: To stand and fight. It's all or nothing as the couple gambles everything they love...
1. Prologue

_ Saint-Germain shifted to look at the girl. "Give me your hand," he said softly. Sophie put her right hand in his, and immediately a feeling of warmth coursed through her body, wiping out the chill. "Let me tell you what my own teacher taught me about fire." As he was speaking, the count moved his glowing index finger across the girl's palm, following the lines and ridges in the flesh, tracing a pattern on her skin. "My teacher said that there are those who will say that the Magic if Air or Water or even Earth is the most powerful magic of all. They are wrong. The Magic of Fire surpasses all others."_

_ As he was speaking, the air directly in front of them began to glow, then shimmer. As if through a heat haze, Sophie watched the smoke twist and dance with the count's words, creating images, symbols, pictures. She wanted to reach out and touch them, but he remained still. Then the rooftop faded and Paris vanished; the only sound she could hear as Saint-Germain's softly insistent voice, and all she could see were the burning cinders. But as he spoke, images started to form in the fire._

"_Fire consumes air. It can heat water into mist and can crack open the earth."_

_ She watched as a volcano spewed molten rock high into the air. Red-black lava and white-hot cinders rained down on a town of mud and stone...._

"_Fire destroys, but it also creates. A forest needs fire to thrive. Certain seeds depend on it to germinate."_

_ Flames twisted like leaves and Sophie saw a forest blackened and battered, the trees scarred with the evidence of a terrible fire. But at the base of the trees, brilliant green shoots poked through the cinders__**….**_

"_In past ages, fire warmed the humani, allowed them to survive in harsh climates."_

_ The fire revealed a desolate landscape, rocky and snow-covered, but she could see that the cave-dotted cliff face was lit up with warm yellow-red flames__**….**_

_ There was a sudden crack and a pencil thin finger of flame shot up into the night sky. She craned her neck, following it up, up, up, until it disappeared amongst the stars._

"_**This is the Magic of Fire."**_


	2. Dark Premonitions

"That's it, you've got it!" Joan screamed in excitement.

"I'm losing it, I…can't do it."

"Yes you can, I trust you."

Saint-Germain shook his head. "No, I don't think I can…"

"Look, you have it practically mastered."

The Comte de Saint-Germain lifted the watering can from the parched looking plant. He dipped it down, water droplets caressing the leaves.

"See, I told you," Joan boasted smugly. "You _can _work with plants without randomly sending them into combustion." She patted his shoulder and added, "Now you don't have an excuse for not caring for them."

"No, I guess not," He said glumly, bending over to look at the content plant. He laid his fingers along its leaves and stroked them gently…

…and they exploded.

With a sigh he turned to face Joan of Arc, Maid of Orleans, his wife of four years, and shrugged, wiggling his fingers in front of his face. "'Guess the 'magic touch' still eludes me after all these years," he said jokingly.

Joan let out a loud breath, shaking her head in disapproval. "Whatever am I going to do with you?"

He shrugged again, turning from the courtyard of his newly remodeled house and into the sprawling building itself.

"Still smells like Nidhogg," Joan muttered behind him. Saint-Germain shot her an annoyed look over his look and continued to the kitchen where he poured himself a tall glass of orange juice and his wife a cup of Hawaiian Kona coffee.

"To our new lives," He said, raising his glass. Joan clanged her cup against his with a smile.

"To _us_," she corrected. He inclined his head and drank the whole glass. Joan just sipped at hers half-heartedly.

He laid his hand on her arm and guided her to the table and they both sat down. "What troubles you, my love?"

"Just these strange dreams I'm having their so…" she paused, searching for the word, "…_prophetic_."

The Count opened his eyes wide in shock; this was not what he had been expecting, but he quickly recovered himself and his expression turned placid once more. "What do you mean by 'prophetic'?"

"It's just I feel like our world is going to be turned upside down. Like everything we have is going to be destroyed," her words tumbled out in an anxious rush. Saint-Germain knew she had been keeping this from him for a long time and it was a relief to finally get it of her shoulders.

"Joan," he said, lifting her chin so their eyes connected, "it is just the aftershock of what we just went through. Which reminds me…" He raised himself from the table, washing his glass out in the sink. "I have an errand to run." He walked towards the cellar stairs, his light footsteps quiet on the granite floor.

"What errand?" Joan said, sounding offended.

"We forgot about the Disir." She nodded, remembering that they had kept the two frozen Valkyries in the freezer downstairs until things settled down. But she had a dark feeling things weren't settling, they were about to be stirred up in a violent maelstrom of chaos and discord. And she feared for not only her husband's life and her own, but the whole city of Paris.

The mistake of letting Nidhogg loose on them would not be made again.

The second strike would be bigger, much bigger.

If only she knew…..


	3. Whispering Shadows

The dark, ominous figure stood in the broad street of Paris that housed the large mansion of the man known as Comte de Saint Germain.

The Count was why this strange, malicious man had come.

The powerful, evil man laid his pale hand against the stone wall of the house. Blue sparks curled down his fingers and into the wall, and the air was suddenly filled with the smell of saltwater as his aura flashed gray-blue.

Blue veins spread from his fingers and curled into the wall and slowly spread beyond it, into the yard, with its exotic flowers, and creeping towards the house.

The sorcerer stroked his long black beard, his sable, beady eyes watching carefully as the veins solidified into a large spreading plate of ice…

* * *

Joan was still sitting at the long kitchen table when the chill hit her. It was like a wind blowing through Siberia in the winter, except no glasses shuddered, no chairs were knocked over, and no window stood ajar.

Magic.

She stood suddenly, spilling her cup of coffee on the table but ignoring it. Saint-Germain had left a few minutes ago to take the Disir to the river Seine, where it would float out of Paris and hopefully all of France before it melted. But even if it didn't the Valkyires wouldn't attempt to attack them again; they were too afraid.

Joan of Arc turned towards the door when she noticed blue sparkles along the wall. She walked towards it slowly, her brow furrowed in confusion. She laid her soft hand against the wall and felt an unusual numbness stick to her fingers. She pulled away swiftly. They were ice crystals, summoned by only the most powerful magic.

Magic like Saint-Germain's magic of fire.

Elder magic.

One moment she was standing in blue jeans and a white tank-top when her aura cracked to life and she became an armor-clad warrior, complete with two handed sword. Lavender filled the air as the stars turned to veins, and the veins began to solidify the space between them, becoming one full wall of ice…

And then it shattered.

Millions of glass-like shards whizzed past her and clanged against her armor, and standing in the doorway stood a tall, dark man who radiated the same sort of power that Saint-Germain emanated whenever he used the Magic of Fire he had taken from Prometheus. But this was an ordinary man.

An ordinary man, Joan suspected, who had taken the elemental magic from one of the Elders.

Just…like…Saint…Germain…..

* * *

"Who are you?" The dark man asked, his silhouette blurred in the twilight.

"I am Joan of Arc, Maid of Orleans," She said, voice icy and cold. This man had entered _her_ home and was demanding of her! She shivered slightly as she remembered how the Disir had done the same thing, and the outcome of _that_ situation had almost caused the death of millions Parisians, not to mention her best friend, Scathach, the Warrior, whom had saved her and trained her. Without the Shadow Joan would be dead. Although registering the feeling this sorcerer gave her made her think that that wasn't so far off…

"I have heard of you, but what are you doing here?" He said dismissively. By now the ice veins had ceased spreading through her newly remodeled home. He had already partially destroyed her kitchen, and she had no intention of letting him leave without paying for it…In blood.

"This…is…my…home," She said slowly, controlling her anger loosely.

"I am looking for the Comte de Saint-Germain; we go, er, way back. I was not aware that he had wife."

She ignored his statement and said quietly, "I am going to count to three, and within that time I advise you to leave my home."

"Is that really necessary?"

"One…"

"Do not do this Joan…" He warned.

"…Two…"

"I do not wish to cause you anymore pain than what you already went through with the Disir and Nidhogg."

She froze. Her angry face fell to that of shock. "How do you…" She didn't wait for an answer before she made the conclusion: "You are no friend of my husband's, and you are definitely no friend of mine." His aura cracked to life around her, filling the room with a silver light and the smell of lavender.

The intruder's aura flashed to life, gray and indigo patches encasing his body in a dully colored cocoon. The bitter odor of saltwater washed through Joan's nostrils, making them flare. She held back the cough that was building in her throat, and stretched her aura out farther, its silver light pulsing as it filled the room. The bitter aroma of saltwater and lavender mixing made her eyes water.

His aura did the same; whips of blue, auric energy lashed out and met her aura, but were quickly dissolved by the power of hers. Where the two met, they created a wall of energy, neither side allowing the other to pass through. Now the battle would be fought with durability and strength.

Joan knew that she could outlast this man, the arrogant tilt of his head and smug voice hinted at power, and she could not win a fight if her aura was weakened in any way. While her main force was skill in fighting, she knew many spells that could make this strange man putty in her hands.

And she intended to use every last one of them.

She pulled in her aura on herself, withdrawing the silver light, forcing his aura forward, weakening his defenses even more.

When the sorcerer realized that she had withdrawn her power, he lowered his defenses, expecting to see an unconscious body lying on the floor. When the cloud of his aura had pulled itself back into its original size, he saw…

…nothing.

The floor lay empty of any life, let alone someone with a silver aura, which hinted at undeniable power.

He had walked to where Joan had been standing, when a voice of bitter contempt murmured behind him: "What is your name? Who are you?"

"I was known in my Russian homeland as Grigory Rasputin." He said, whirling around, expecting, again, to see the woman, but found only the gaping whole in the wall.

"Ahh yes, Rasputin, the _khlysty_. I have heard of you years ago. The records say you died."

"I was a profound sorcerer and a magician before I became immortal," He said, annoyance leaking into his voice as the whispering shadows continued.

"Well, immortal human Grigory Rasputin, you have entered my house, and made demands of me. You threaten me and my husband, and you wish to bring harm to us both. You are no friend of either mine or Saint-Germain's. You, sorcerer, are not welcome in _my_ home."

And with those final words, Joan of Arc, Maid of Orleans, leapt from the shadows, clad in armor and wielding an overlarge two-handed sword, a mask of vile hatred worn gracefully on her beautiful face as she lunged at him, ready for the kill…..


	4. The Secret of Fire

The Comte de Saint-Germain watched the large block of ice float haphazardly down the river Seine, two cloudy figures barely visible in the dark light of the evening. He had not been there when the Disir had attacked his home with Nidhogg, but Joan had, and the thought of his wife fighting someone as powerful as either the Valkyries or the Devourer of Corpses, made him shudder.

Paris was an ancient city, the earliest records of it dated back thousands of years, and like all elder cities, there are even older points of magic.

Leygates.

Shadowrealm entrances.

The ancient French city housed many a leygate, and myriad Shadowrealms scattered the lush land. And Saint-Germain knew that where he was standing right now was the entrance to a particular Elder who hated him very much.

Be bent low to the steep drop-off of the cement into the water and gently touched an arcane mark etched in the stone. Then he stroked another and another, knowing that when influenced by even the slightest amount of magic, the stones would transform into a translucent hole that one would be able to enter through and come out into the home realm of Prometheus.

His oldest and probably most powerful enemy.

He turned and shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked back towards his truck that he never used but, in times like these, came in handy.

Then he heard a soft sizzling sound. A high-pitched noise that sent goose bumps crawling on his arms and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

He whirled around to see the small symbols on the stone glowing a piercing yellow-red…

The portal to the Shadowrealm was being opened.

Fire crackled to life on his hands and sparks shot from his eyes. Suddenly, a tall, tanned figure jumped up out of the stone! His hair was bronze in color, and where the streetlamp light touched it made it glow and shine. He wore black clothes that looked like they were _moving_. Grayish-black colors drifted along his clothing, looking like dark rivers of lava. His eyes were a collection of colors, red, orange, yellow, and even blue, that seemed to twist and shift like fire.

And the Scathach's haunting words came back to Saint-Germain:

"And one of these days my uncle will want it back." She had been speaking of the Secret of Fire that he had gleaned, or stole, from Prometheus. But exactly where had the Elder gotten it from?

"Comte de Saint-Germain," Prometheus hissed, acid coiling on his words. Tensions hung in the air; it was so thick it was almost tangible.

"Prometheus," He said, bowing slightly. He had no intention of sucking up to the Elder, he just needed time. Saint-Germain had learned myriad spells of auric energy and fire magic. He knew that the most powerful spells left you weak and vulnerable, but he was about to perform one of those spells. He needed to stall the Elder while he pulled his aura into his body, which he could then project into a supernova of energy at the Elder. It was extremely dangerous, but Saint0Germain had no choice. Prometheus would otherwise have him obliterated if he didn't beat him to the punch.

"I see that your power over Fire Magic has not grown," the Elder sad smugly.

Saint-Germain raised his eyebrow in a silent question. Let him think that, he thought, the more underestimated I am, the better.

"You have not attempted to move against me with it," He said, as if not attacking him was because Saint-Germain lacked the power. "_I_ had much knowledge of it. I knew myriad spells, incantations, and cantrips in Fire Magic."  
Still stalling, Saint-Germain asked, "Prometheus, where did you steal the Secret of Fire?"

He laughed loudly, his voice rough and croaky. "And why should I tell you that?"

"I doubt that you will let me live, so I ask this as a dying wish."

Prometheus sighed, sadness overwhelming his expression. "Very well then. You see, the Elder Race were not the first creatures upon the planet. There were…_others_. The Elders used Nidhogg, Amehait, and some of the other primordial monsters as weapons against them." Saint-Germain stood wide-eyed and open mouthed at the revelation as Prometheus continued. "Danu Talis was also not the first island continent. The Others lived upon a massive land in the Pacific Ocean. The humani called it Mu. It was their center of power, much older and larger than Danu Talis. Mu's capital was the great city of Tan Madol, which I'm sure you're familiar with?" Saint-Germain nodded, awestruck by the information. "Well, in the center of Tan Madol stood a huge obelisk. Atop it was a glowing fireball: the Secret of Fire. I climbed it in the middle of the night, snatched the fire and ran. The upset of power sent tremors and earthquakes through Mu. When the Elders saw the firelight die out on top of the obelisk, they attacked. Taking the Secret of Fire was not only the key to the Others downfall, but also the missing piece to every race's prosperity. After the Great War, we, the Elders, destroyed every last remnant of the Others, wiping out a civilization for all eternity." Then he nodded towards Saint-Germain, "The Secret of Fire, which you now hold, is the last thing of the Others, the only thing that we left live."

"That's….amazing," Saint-Germain whispered. The fact that the Elder Race had kept that secret from every other race forever proved how powerful the information was.

Prometheus nodded, eyes glassy, looking off into a place which Saint-Germain couldn't see. "Yes…yes it is."

Then a soft itch starting working it's away along the Count's body and he was suddenly aware of how long he had been holding his aura in check. For a second, he rethought unleashing his power on the Elder who seemed so sad and distant. But then another thought crossed his mind and he slowly lowered himself to the ground, his fingers brushing the cold stone as he let his aura leak into the brick.

Prometheus' head snapped up, and then a broad smile etched itself into his face. "Do not try your minor spells against me, magician,"

Now it was Saint-Germain's turn to smile. "Oh, I wouldn't call me a magician with the spell I'm working."

The Elder's brow furrowed in confusion at his words.

The Comte de Saint-Germain let more of his aura trickle into the stone before he spoke. "I would much rather prefer you call me _alchemist_." And with that, the earth around Prometheus began to shift and run, dripping into the Seine. The Elder's cries were lost in the splashing of water.

And Saint-Germain didn't see the side of the river wall tumble into the Seine as he ran away from the screaming Elder.


	5. Unsheathing the Past

…..and froze. Joan of Arc stood with her sword held high in a battle strike when she realized that the air was suddenly different. She knew Rasputin felt it too for he wasn't looking her but far off into the distance. There was a soft buzzing in the air that was growing as the seconds ticked by. Joan's aura cracked to life for a moment and the room was filled with the scent of lavender as familiar auric energy reacted to hers.

Where had she felt that strange feeling before?

Joan, being a warrior, knew to always take advantage of your enemy's weakness or failing. So, while the sorcerer was still entranced by the buzzing in the air, she brought her sword down hard.

Rasputin ducked out of the way at the last moment, sending ice daggers spiraling towards her. She shocked her aura to life in a protective shield and the ice melted into a puddle at her feet.

The large sword in her hand shifted and twitched as she returned it to pure energy and then back into a large battleaxe. She lunged at him again, only to meet a glassy shield of ice. She smashed it to bits, only to find emptiness behind it.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" She called tauntingly. "Don't you want to play, Rasputin?"

She felt the temperature drop a few degrees, her breath visible in the air.

"We're using parlor tricks now, eh?" She teased again. Joan slowly felt fear tingle at the edges of her consciousness as she tasted his power. "Where did you acquire such power? I have only felt that energy from my husband and from a handful of Elders."

"It is elemental magic, my dear. The Magic of Ice," Rasputin called from all around her. She rolled her eyes: More parlor tricks.

"And whom, may I ask; did you glean such power from? I have not heard of any Elder expert in that area of magic."

"I stole the power from the Elder Hel, deep within Niflheim."

"Just like Saint-Germain," She whispered in horror.

"Just like Saint-Germain," Rasputin agreed. "Fire and Ice, we are doomed to be enemies even without our history together."

"I have never heard my husband speak of you," Joan shot back. He was toying with her, but she was going to get as much information from the sorcerer as possible.

"I would believe as much is expected. Your dearly beloved took much from me. It was he who exploited me to the Russian government as a _khlysty_, which in turn lead to my downfall in Russia."

Joan knew of the deadly cult of the _khlysty_. They believed that sinning actually made you closer with God. They were seen as witches and spawns of the Devil in Russia and were feared above all others.

"Which I guess I should thank him for, considering it led me to eventually finding the Secret of Ice."

"But I have read of your murder, I have seen the body myself when I was a nurse in Russia, assisting the Romanov's son." Alexis, the only boy in the last dynasty of the Romanov family had a unique disease that could make even a paper cut bleed him to death.

"I had acquired a few minor spells by then, including the _glamour_, which can make even a total stranger look like your best friend," Rasputin stepped from the shadows in front of Joan, stroking his thick, black beard.

Joan opened her mouth to speak but stopped as the buzzing in the air had begun again. She hadn't realized when it stopped, but the fact that it was beginning again gave her no comfort.

Then it hit her.

Of course! The buzzing resembled the Disir's auras. Except while their auras had been a soft rumbling, this was an angular buzz that reminded her of mosquitoes. With her centuries of knowledge, Joan tried to figure out who was related to the Valkyires…

"But the spell worked quite efficiently for one of my earliest spells," Rasputin continued, unaware of Joan's revelation. "And it obviously even fooled you, a profound woman if I do say so myself."

Joan's eyes grew wide in horror. "Amazons," she whispered incoherently.

"What?"

The tiny Frenchwoman focused on Rasputin's face, "The Amazons." The sorcerer's expression became even more confused. Joan looked from him to the battleaxe and back again. Then, in one fluent motion, thunked him on the side of the head with it. He tumbled to the floor in an unconscious lump of body.

She ran away from him up the stairs and into a large room which had once served as Saint-Germain's music room until he had built the attic. Now it was their library.

A _correct_ library.

Most of the books were from immortal humans, Elders, or Next Generation who had wrote down the real history of the planet and the races before the humani. As a matte of fact, the library only contained one small book on human history, and that had been written by Joan herself in a failed effort to convert historical events of the humani into what really happened. There were just too many faults in how humans recorded their past.

She grabbed a large book titled "Warriors of the World" from a tall shelf and threw it down on a large desk in the middle of the large room. She flipped through it, skipping Bogatyrs, Torc Allta, and even only quickly looking over Disir. Then she found it: Amazons.

She read the book aloud to herself:

"The Amazons were of the Elder Race, and were the sister clan to the Disir, or Valkyries. They did not live among Danu Talis but first traveled to what the humani call "Greece", and conquered the people there. Then they went south through Egypt into the Dry Continent, slaughtering any that stood in their way. They traveled west from there, to the Tropical Land, southwest of Danu Talis, where they remained, killing any who dared to venture into their lands. Their queen was Penthiselea, and when the Disir and their leader, Brynhildr, waged war, the Amazons joined them, and always avenged the death of any of their comrades…"

Joan looked up from the yellowed book, faced pale and horrorstruck. The Amazons were coming for _her_. They must have felt the immobilization of the Valkyries Sophie Newman had frozen into an ice block and mistaken it for death.

The Amazons were coming to Paris.


	6. The Amazons

Saint-Germain stood in fear at the gaping whole in the side of his house. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind all at once: Was his wife in there? Was she alive? Who had attacked her? What did they want? Were the intruders still in there?

Involuntarily, a different color flame snapped alight on each of his finger, fire twirling up his arm. He rushed towards the house, jumping over shattered pieces of ice, fear tearing the edges of his sanity. Whoever had attacked Joan had either been a powerful Elder or…

He shook his head. It wasn't possible; his old rival had been killed by the Tuatha De Dannan, a race of remarkable half-human, half-Elder creatures. Rasputin had offended them and so they tore him apart, limb from limb, and hung his body parts on Mt. Everest to serve as a warning to any others who dared oppose them.

As he entered, the bitter smell of saltwater filled his nostrils as his suspicious were confirmed.

"Rasputin!" He bellowed in anger. If the sorcerer had laid a pale, ancient finger on his wife…

Saint-Germain froze inside his home. Lying among the rubble and debris was the body of Grigory Rasputin, the legendary _khlysty_, motionless. The Count was confused; had Joan defeated him? Then where was she? Had something _else_ attacked? He shook his head as he scanned the large, devastated room for signs of Joan.

He closed his eyes as he called upon his aura and worked a spell he had learned from Joan herself who had been taught it by a Celtic priest. He opened his eyes again and…

…almost collapsed from nausea. His senses were suddenly overwhelmed, straining to understand the mixture of power all around him.

The incantation was rather simple. It allowed one to see the auras of those close to that person, such as family, friends, lovers…enemies.

And now wherever Saint-Germain looked he could only see blue, gray, and silver. He could only smell lavender and saltwater. He could only feel the pressure of their auras on his body.

The two had used excessive magic here, spreading their auras out, Saint-Germain guessed. He focused on a line of silver that ran round the room. He followed it from where hew had last seen Joan and followed it around. It faded barely in places, where she most likely tried to conceal herself from Rasputin, but didn't disappear completely. Then he saw as it pooled right in front of the sorcerer, then dashed in a bee line up the stairs.

He raised himself from the ground where he had collapsed from the overwhelmed emotions, and walked out of the room. As soon as he exited the kitchen, he felt an immense pressure lift itself off him. He turned back to see the room clouded in blue and silver smoke, looking tangible and impenetrable. He walked slowly up the stairs, parallel to Joan's auric trail. As he reached the top, he walked quietly down the hall and into the library where he prepared himself for the worst…

Saint-Germain rushed to his wife's crumpled form on the floor. He bent down and hugged her, soothing her.

"What is it, my love? What has frightened you?" He hadn't seen her this distraught since…well, ever.

She looked up into his sparkling blue eyes. "The Amazons are coming to Paris."

He felt his breath catch in his throat. The Amazons were even feared than their sister clan: the Disir. The Amazons had no laws of pride and honor, but knew every dirty trick, and had no problem using every last one of them. They were renowned killers and murders, massacring people just for the fun of it, destroying entire tribes and villages in one raid.

"How…how do you know?" He choked on his words. They came out scratchy and scared.

"I felt Penthiselea's aura," She said, her eyes briefly turning to reflective silver coins.

Saint-Germain swayed, his vision turning black for a few moments. When it cleared, black spots danced across his vision. _Penthiselea_! She was in _Paris_! He shuddered, the very thought chilling him to the bone.

"We must prepare," he said, raising his shaking wife from the floor. He knew she had no fear for herself, but for the entire city of Paris. When the Disir had attacked, she had been driven by anger. When Nidhogg ravaged through the city, contempt pushed her forward. But now the Amazons, the Warrior Women, were coming to a city with a massive population. A city that the Amazons would have no second thought about decimating. Then, in a random question, he asked, "Do you know why they are coming?"

"They have felt the Disir being frozen and have mistaken it for death. They have come to avenge their sisters."

"How many?"

"Just one. Their leader, Penthiselea"

Saint-Germain shook his head. "Then we have more to prepare for than we thought. And of all the times…"

Joan's head snapped up to look at his. "What do you mean?"

"First Rasputin, and know the Amazons. And Prometheus attacked me at the Seine; he wanted the Secret of Fire back."

"Do we have any allies in the city?" Joan asked, all notes of fear vanishing from her voice. She became the strong and powerful warrior once more.

"Catherine de Medici lives not far from here, but she would not help us. Other than her all the others are allied with Dark Elders and would probably assist them in killing us," the Count responded.

Joan of Arc shook her head. "No, there is one, one who can help us. One who will willingly aid us."

"Who?" He asked, but his voice was lost in the sound of shattering stone and brick. The two looked at each other, than glided down the stairs and towards the kitchen and into…

…chaos.

The Amazons had decided to arrive in Paris, the City of Lights, early.

- - - - -

Fire cracked to life on Saint-Germain's hands, flames twisting and curling around his arms as the air was filled with the scent of burnt leaves. Joan's aura snapped alight as she transformed into a fully-clad warrior.

In front of the two, Rasputin was firing deadly shards of ice at a woman with dark skin, wearing a brown animal skin as a dress, a bow held in her hand, a quiver slung over back. She had a vine covered scabbard dangling from her side, but she showed no want to use it.

Her thick dress was also woven with ivy and other exotic plants. A large pink blossom was strung in her raven black hair. Her eyes were a startling green that looked like emerald fire.

Wherever Rasputin's ice came spiraling towards her, her aura would spark alight, forest greens, chestnut browns, and midnight blues made up the intricate pattern that enveloped her like a shield, melting the deadly ice.

Then Penthiselea turned towards the immortal humans, and a broad smile showed her pointed teeth.

She looked back at Rasputin, and then strode towards Joan and Saint-Germain, withdrawing two concealed hunting swords from her back. Saint-Germain raised his hand to thrown a fireball, but Joan touched his arm gently and pushed him back.

"No, you handle Rasputin."

The Count looked at her longingly then dived around the Amazon and towards the confused sorcerer.

Penthiselea was the Queen of the Amazons. She ruled over a vast tribe of warriors, monsters, and creatures that had no right to exist outside of nightmares. She had lived for millennia and had laid claim to myriad lands. Her knowledge of lands at the ends of the earth mounted on infinite. And she had been fighting eons with creatures far more advanced than the humani.

And she didn't stand a chance.

Joan raised her broad sword defensively. The small Frenchwoman, despite her size, was threatening and deadly. She commanded an arsenal of incantations and battle moves. She knew how to kill something with practically any item in a room, and she knew thirty-two different ways to behead someone. She could focus and wield one of the most powerful auras in the history of the world, and she would not hesitate to turn the warrior woman into ash.

Her aura sparked to life as she brought the sword down on top of the Amazon…..


	7. The Beginning of the End

…and their world exploded.

Joan of Arc lifted her head. The last thing she remembered was getting ready to strike the queen of the Amazons, Penthiselea, and then she was on the floor. She looked above her and gasped.

Fire spread across the ceiling, trying to curl upwards, but finding an impenetrable barrier in their way. In some places the ceiling had caved in, and fires were scattered all around her. Smoke clouded in the room, searching for an escape but finding none.

She rose quickly, her aura snapping alight, creating armor and a sword for her once more. She saw Saint-Germain unaffected by the heat and flame surging power at Rasputin, drawing power from the flames. The sorcerer was coated in a heat-haze, his features blurry and distorted. But what had created the explosion?

Surely Saint-Germain would not destroy his own home, and it would only exhaust him, not give him power like it was doing now.

And then a small idea popped into her head. Her husband had mentioned meeting his old arch-enemy back at the Seine, Prometheus, the old Master of Fire. Surely he still could wield the Magic of Fire. It was a vibrant and infinite element; it could certainly feed two wielders at the same time, of not more.

So that meant that an ancient Elder with a thirst for vengeance was in her already attacked house. Didn't they have enough enemies to fight?

She spoke too soon…

* * *

The enchantress stood by the river Seine, taking in it's eeriness in the moonlight. She had come for revenge, and she would not leave the City of Lights until she had gotten it.

Anne Boleyn was an immortal human. She had an Elder master whom had given her leave in order to attack her old nemesis, Joan of Arc. She had learned much about the recent years of the Maid of Orleans, and the fact that she had a husband still remained a secret to her though. The World of Man and the World of the Elder still had no idea of Saint-Germain's and Joan's marriage.

Anne's loathing for Joan went back centuries. While working undercover for the Catholic Church to dig up a secret on King Henry the VIII so that he could be beheaded, Joan had been given the job of executioner to his second wife. The Pope back in Rome tried to get her out of it and to stick to her assignment, but the English parliament wouldn't budge, they want Joan to do it. So she did. Her powerful Elder master had witnessed her beheading. She had come to recruit her, for the Elder felt the powerful energy emanating from the queen. So after her execution, the Elder had found the body and had spent months repairing her. After some time, Anne lived, and became the servant to one of the most feared Elders ever: Kali.

Anne wondered why Joan had helped the Catholic Church when they had "burned" her alive. No doubt the Pope had no idea who Joan was, but still…

She snapped back into the present, her senses reeling. She whirled around and saw a column of smoke rising not far from where she stood. A deadly smile stretched across her face. Auric energy was caught in the smoke and drifted upward.

_Silver_ auric energy.

* * *

Saint-Germain poured out his aura into the Magic of Fire, making it a swirling tempest of flame. He had drained every last fire around him of its power, but even now he could feel Rasputin's control over the Magic of Ice slowly weaken and dim.

But the Count had another problem. Prometheus had created the explosion, attempting to get rid of the beings in the house besides Saint-Germain, but instead it had angered Joan and had given Penthiselea the distraction she needed. Rasputin had surrounded himself with a wall of ice to protect him from the vicious flames leaping from the ceiling.

Joan looked al around her, but could find no sign of the Amazonian queen. And then a sudden ripping of concrete and plaster echoed behind her. She was afraid to look until a low growling shook the air around her. She slowly turned, and gasped.

Behind Joan of Arc was a massive _monster_.

Facing her was a twenty foot tall, and at least twice that in length, creature that resembled what might have been a dragon. Except it had blue-green, feathered wings, along with a feathery mane around its head and at the tip of its tail. It had two large, velociraptor-like legs at its lower torso, complete with the overlarge claw. It was turquoise in color, with gold at the edge of each of its feathers, and its amber eyes were stunning. It opened its mouth in a grim smile to reveal overlong fangs and a bruise colored tongue.

Joan knew it was the child of one of the Elder Race. Many of the Elders had children, and they always resembled their parents in some way. This was the offspring of one of the most powerful Elders, Quetzalcoatl. He had been worshipped in Central America as the supreme deity for good reason. He had a rare ability: He could shift from human form, into that of a feathered serpent, even though he was not of the Were Clans. And this was clearly one of his children that had only the aspects of his serpentine form.

And riding atop it was Penthiselea. Joan knew she should've seen this coming the moment she learned of the Amazons presence. Of course she would bring one of the children of one of the most powerful Elders. The warrior women lived in the Amazonian jungle, and the ancient ruins where Quetzalcoatl and his children were said to dwell was not far off. For one of the Elders, that is.

The strange and unique Elder eyed Joan with eyes of bloodlust. She had come to avenge her sister clan, the Disir. The Maid of Orleans took up a battle stance and prepared herself. She solidified her aura around her, making not only armor, but a thick, silver orb that protected her. She had no idea what the amphithere, as the feathered dragons were sometimes called, was capable of, and she wanted to be prepared above and beyond for the deadly power that was about to be released upon her.

The amphithere rose to its full towering height, growling menacingly. Joan steadied her sword in one hand as she outstretched the other towards the feathered serpent. She concentrated her aura as much as she could, silver sparks and coils drifting down her arm and pooling in her palm. She closed her eyes as she focused a spell that an old druid from Ireland had taught her for getting rid of peists, or lake serpents; she figured it would be just as effective on the amphithere.

Joan stared down the Amazon and her pet, anger, and what might have been a trickle of fear, was in her eyes. She whispered to herself, hoarsely, even though she knew that every being in the building – Saint-Germain, Penthiselea, Prometheus, Rasputin, the amphithere – could hear her.

"And so it begins."


	8. Silver Supernova

"And so it ends."

Saint-Germain murmured to himself as Rasputin sent another burst of arctic energy hurtling towards him. They were only a few feet away from each other, yet that seemed to only intensify the pressure between them. The air was thick with static energy, and the normally fragrant smells of lavender, burnt leaves, saltwater, and chestnuts from Penthiselea's aura, now became bitter and acrid atop one another and the sharp smell of ozone lay beneath all the other aromas as the pure smell of auric energy.

And then the air was smothered with the scent of wood smoke – the scent of Elder magic – and Prometheus dropped from the gaping hole in the ceiling, orange-brown mist curling from his fingers.

Saint-Germain looked back at Rasputin, whose face had grown deathly pale and sweated. The Count smiled to himself. He would finish the sorcerer, then handle the Elder, and if Joan hadn't won yet, than they, together, would decimate the Amazon.

But his thoughts were lost in a bitter shriek that sounded absolutely _nothing_ like a human…..

* * *

Joan had pulled all her aura into a tight, gripping suit around her. Nothing could penetrate the shield, and soon she would use the huge amount of gathered power in offense. She had only managed a sidelong glance when Prometheus had come crashing in, filling the room with the scent of Elder magic.

And that minute distraction was what the Amazon was waiting for.

She pulled out a whip and struck the amphithere, commanding it to attack. It lunged forward, viper-like fangs glistening. Joan looked back just in time to see the monster snap at her, hitting her contracted aura instead, sending it reeling, silver sparks and tendrils of energy racing across it's face. It roared in agony, threatening to send Penthiselea flying off its back.

Joan made a split-second decision and threw her aura out, creating a supernova like burst of power, threatening the balance of nature within her home.

And that's exactly what happened.

Of course she knew it would greatly weaken her, but she had taken the risk. The energy shot at the feathered serpent, making it bend and twist on itself, its eyes becoming flat, silver coins as it crumpled to a lifeless form of ash. The Amazon had been struck hard and was slumped awkwardly in a corner, her eyes rolled in the back of her head.

The supernova had also hit the others. Prometheus had been slammed hard through a wall, through the courtyard, and into the road. And Rasputin and Saint-Germain's powers had turned on them. Saint-Germain, being the older and more experienced in his element, was protected by his aura as fire balls danced across his skin. But Rasputin was deeply affected: A thin crust of ice crystals began to coat itself across his flesh. His breath plumed in a foggy mist in front of him as he screamed enchantments and incantations that had no effect on the ice.

Saint-Germain took advantage of this sudden weakness, and sent a roaring fireball at the sorcerer. It shot him through the gaping hole in the wall, the exact effects of the fire's damage t the sorcerer invisible to him as the ball of flame shoved him farther and farther from his home.

He ran over to where his wife crouched, breathing heavily. She had used an incredibly amount of energy and power, and the fact that she had not randomly combusted was a testimony to her strength. He rose quickly as he saw Penthiselea stride toward them, bruises and burn marks scaring her olive skin. He focused what little aura strength he had left, and released a fire tornado on her. It whipped her around and around, spinning her madly, threatening to rip her limbs off. It pushed her deeper into the house, away from them.

"C'mon, my love," Saint-Germain grunted as he lifted Joan to her feet, throwing her left arm around the back of his neck for support. "We must leave her. They will return, and with greater fury and wrath than before."

Joan lifted her head and glanced at his face as they trotted slowly to the back door. "We must find allies, someone in the city who can help us," she said between breaths.

"Who, Joan, There is no one in Paris who does not lie within the Dark Elders allegiance?"

She shook her head, pulled her arm from Saint-Germain's shoulders, recovering her strength quickly. "There is one, one who will assist us."

"Who?" He asked again.

"William Blake: artist, painter, magician…..necromancer."

* * *

Anne Boleyn breathed in, and quickly gagged and coughed on the sudden rush of smells. There was an overwhelming amount of power used here recently. She looked around at the decimated house, its burnt ceiling, revealing the equally burned upstairs, the blackened walls, the gaping whole in the other. She could smell all the auric scents around her.

There it was!

Lavender: it was scattered around the room, strong in one place, and grew weaker as it spread through the rest of the house.

Joan of Arc, Maid or Orleans, had displayed an immense amount of power here, and not long ago. Which meant that she was weak, and she could be easily taken.

But then she saw another trail along Joan's, a reddish brown auric trail that smelled like burnt leaves. Anne's brow furrowed in confusion. The aura trail pooled around Joan's, like it help her, like it _led_ her. If her house had been attacked, why had someone helped her? She didn't understand, but she planned to, and soon.

She pulled out the blue ribbon from her raven hair and it flew behind her in the sudden gush of wind as she ran through the back door, and raced down the dark, Parisian streets, her blues eyes darting from one black shape to the next in unquenchable anxiety.


	9. Running

Joan of Arc was a warrior, a soldier, a leader, and a powerful woman. But the amount of power she had released back in her home had completely and utterly exhausted her. She was weak and vulnerable, using so much auric energy had been reckless, and she knew it. It was dangerous also: she had endangered herself, and then had put Saint-Germain in harms way by making him have to protect her, forcing him to use power as well. And while his power was much greater and more durable because of the Secret of Fire, it was not unlimited.

She was now slumped against her husband who half dragged, half pulled Joan along with him. They _had_ to get to the immortal human known as William Blake. Saint-Germain knew little about him, besides the fact that he was like Perenelle Flamel: he could see the shades of the dead, along with auras. There were even rumors that he was a distant relative to the Sorceress, but they had never been confirmed. But Saint-Germain had had no idea the visionary painter had been _immortal_. Aware of the Elder world, sure, but an immortal human? Never. And how had he become immortal? Joan would've mentioned if he had an Elder, which she didn't. But that meant that he had discovered immortality on his own. And Saint-Germain knew, from experience, that those immortal humans were the most dangerous.

But Joan had faith in him. How did the two know each other? Suspicion gnawed at Saint-Germain, threatening his sanity in the hysterical situation they were in. He always trusted his wife and never doubted her, but if she had such great trust in this man that only she knew was in Paris, and had never spoken of him to the Count, her husband, made him finally believe that in the world of magic, Elders, sorcerers, alchemists, magicians, immortal humans, and myriad other creatures and beings, you could trust _no one._

Then he stopped. Had he just felt that, or was it his imagination? He turned to look at Joan, but her eyes were shut tightly and her expression was that of pain. Then it felt it again: a sharp twitching on his aura, like an itch. It was the feeling of someone's aura reacting to his, but it wasn't Joan's, and he didn't recognize it as being from anyone who had attacked the house. Which meant only one thing: they were being pursued by another.

Saint-Germain glanced all around him, into houses, down the streets, towards the dark alleys, but saw nothing. He checked the roofs, but saw nothing also. He started to search the area all around him, but there was not a soul.

He began to panic; here they were, running from three – perhaps four – powerful beings, looking for a man Saint-Germain knew not of, nor did he know where he lived or where they were going, Joan was exhausted and on the brink of unconsciousness, he had but a trickle of power left, not to mention the impenetrable darkness all around them.

And they were trapped.

* * *

Anne Boleyn was running. She had no idea if one of the other owners of the myriad auras back there – which she knew they had all meant to cause Joan harm – had followed the warrior.

She couldn't risk Joan going to any of her allies. She knew Scathach had disappeared into the Seine, but she was alive. And then their was the small army of Bogatyrs underground who might come to her air, not to mention their eight-legged horses.

No, she would have to get to Joan before she could get to anyone else. Abruptly, she skidded to a halt: there, barely meters away, was Joan of Arc.

But who was the man next to her? Anne snarled low, and slowly crept up to him. He whirled around to meet her, a raging fireball in his hand.

She stopped at the sight of the blazing flame. Who was this man and how powerful was he that he could wield one of the elemental magics? She snapped alight her violet aura, filling the air with the sudden odor of exotic and luxurious perfumes. Saint-Germain ignored the impulse to breathe and held his breath. Purple spheres of curling mist appeared in her hands, sparkling and shimmering.

"Who are you?" he asked acidly. He had had enough of the petty games humans and Elders had been playing with them.

"I am Anne Boleyn, legendary queen of England, and immortal human," she paused, glaring intently at the count. "But I believe the question is: who are you?"

Saint-Germain's brow furrowed, confused. "I am the Comte de Saint-Germain, Master of Fire, and husband of the legendary Joan of Arc."

The enchantress took a step back. Her arch-enemy had gotten _married_? How had she not made aware? Did no one know, or was it just a select few? Or had they kept their matrimony a secret?

"I was not aware that she was married, and to the Master of Fire, none the less."

Saint-Germain nodded. "And what about you? I heard Henry the VIII is an immortal human, have you two spoken?" He teased mockingly.

A low, inhuman growl escaped from Anne's lips. Her eyes flitted from the count to Joan and back again. She had come for Joan, but would this really be a complication? She doubted it would and so, raising her hand which still held the glowing sphere, she squeezed her hand shut.

All three of the immortal humans gasped in unison. Even in the open, the air seemed to be sucked away, ripped from their throats.

Then Anne pushed open her fingers and an invisible explosion shot both Joan and Saint-Germain back, severing the hold they had on each other. The count banged his head on a light post, and Joan wearily raised herself.

"Anne Boleyn," she murmured bitterly. "I used to think killing you was a mistake, obviously I should've done a better job."

"Considering _your_ life rests in _my _hands, I'd show some respect," she shot back.

"Your right…My Queen," Joan teased again, bowing slightly. She knew she couldn't fight the rested ex-queen, so she was going to make her mad. Anger made a person reckless and arrogant, and either Anne would become raged and reckless, or she would be fueled by her fury to murder both of them.

Joan was hoping for option number one.

Lavender sparks and tendrils of electricity shot up and down Anne's body, giving it an indigo glow. Her eyes had turned into flat, purple coins, but the bitter contempt in them was still clearly noticeable. Her palms pooled with violet energy, slowly weakening her power, but anger now fueled Anne Boleyn, and anger made her reckless.

Joan of Arc saw her last chance of escape…..

* * *

…..and took it.

She powered her aura, swinging her sword and flashing her armor. She made one swift motion with the giant blade at Anne's neck. The enchantress shoved herself back, avoiding the strike.

Joan swung again…and again…and again…and again. But Anne barely avoided it every time by centimeters. Then Joan twisted back the sword and stood unbelievably still.

Anne heaved and puffed, out of breath. She saw the warrior hesitating and focused her aura. She concentrated hard; making sure the deadly bolt of energy was perfect in every way.

While deep in concentration, Anne didn't see Joan running, sword raised high. And she looked up just in time to see Joan hooking her foot behind her ankle and forcing her to the ground. Anne, in surprise, let the purple bolt of auric energy loose. It bounced all around them, turning every solid object it touched to sand-like dust. When the bolt was aimed precariously for Joan's throat, she lifted her hand towards it, flaring her aura. The bolt immediately dissolved, creating nothing more than indigo sparkles in the air.

Joan's aura flared involuntarily, filling the street with the scent of lavender. Joan lifted her sword, point down, in both her hands, aiming for the enchantress's throat. Then, swiftly, she shoved the blade down…..

* * *

…..and it _moved_. Joan opened her eyes in surprise. There was like an invisible shield across Anne! Joan slid the blade across Anne's face and neck over and over, but it just slid away, striking sparks from an invisible force.

"Impossible…" Joan stuttered, unable to speak. Never had she seen such a spell, incantation or cantrip that could do such thing.

Saint-Germain appeared behind her, laying a hand on her shoulder. He had a large gash on his forehead where the blood had crusted and dried and was now tinted black. He bent down to the still conscious Anne Boleyn and laid his index and middle finger on her forehead. She gasped – once, twice, thrice – then her eyes closed and she let out a large breath.

"Did you…? Is she…?" Joan asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Her armor and sword had faded and fatigue had begun to set back in. Already her muscles and bones ached, and it took her all her will to keep her eyes from shutting permanently when she would blink.

Saint-Germain shook his head. "I just heated up her body, gave her a fever. The sudden amount of heat made her body go into shock, sending her into unconsciousness. She'll awake soon with a nasty headache."

He put his arm around Joan for support, and together they walked down the empty, dark Parisian street, towards their one and only hope left…


	10. So Close, Yet So Far

The dark, ominous figure emerged from the black waters, shaking water droplets from their short hair. A deep fire burned in their eyes: anger, wrath, fury. They had one the minor battle that had just occurred, but it was time, once again, for this strange figure to do what it had been born to do….

Fight.

* * *

They were running.

They couldn't stop. If they did, everything they were running from would catch up to them, and all would be lost. Centuries of hard work and straining for survival would be thrown away. So they ran.

Comte de Saint-Germain and Joan of Arc moved lithely down the stone street in a strait, unswerving line. No one roamed these back, Paris streets at night. Only the couple who were racing for their lives. And against time.

"This way", Joan said suddenly said, swerving sharply to her right down a dark, narrow alleyway. Saint-Germain followed without a word, igniting a small flame on each of his fingertips, every flame being a different color, lighting the dark, almost suffocating, pathway.

They knew they had to find the famous artist William Blake, who had lived in Paris only the last few months and his position in the City of Lights remained secret to all but Joan. The painter was the only one in all of France who would help them, and without him, all would be lost.

Joan suddenly stopped, her aura flaring, filling the small space with the scent of lavender. Saint-Germain almost slammed into her but stopped himself quickly right behind her.

"What is it?" He asked, genuine curiosity flowing into his voice.

"Can you not feel it? We are about to enter upon incredibly ancient land. Special land," she explained, her eyes becoming flat, reflective, silver coins.

Saint-Germain squeezed beside his wife, and suddenly he felt a sharp buzzing in the air. A powerful energy that was only degrees away from being tangible. His aura flared also, filling the alley with the scent of burnt leaves mixed with lavender.

Joan continued to walk forward, exiting the dark alley and entering a large, grassy hill. Atop the green prominence was a large, sprawling mansion, with only one flickering light coming from it. The light then seemed to move from that room to another, like a highly luminescent candle, like someone was moving it.

The buzzing was still all around them when Saint-Germain asked, "How did you know he was here?"

Joan shrugged. "This is the most ancient – and arcane – spots in all of Paris, it only seemed natural. For all the time I knew William, he seemed…strange. More powerful in ways he would never fully explain to me," she paused and added, "He's immune to Elder Magic you know?"

The counts head swiveled rapidly to look at his wife. "Impossible!"

Joan shook her head, her lips pursed. "I don't know how he became such, but it is true. He is a strange immortal human, Francis. I do not know how he became such," she admitted truthfully.

"Then let's find out," Saint-Germain muttered as he began the long walk of the lush earth to the barely lit mansion of William Blake.

* * *

William Blake sat at a tiny stool in front of a large canvas. Painted in myriad color on the paper was an intricate scene of the Fall of Danu Talis, as he imagined it of course. He had sold many paintings and tapestries depicting scenes from the Elder World throughout his life, but everyone just assumes that he was very abstract in his art.

He lifted his paintbrush and brushed some crimson into the painting, working slowly and hard, not rushing. He lifted his head just in time to hear a loud bang on the door. He jumped, too accustom to the dark quiet, and his aura flared a blinding white. He stood up; the tiny globe of light fixed precariously into his palm glowed steadily as he walked down the long and intricate hallways.

He stood at the door and, before opening it, put one hand behind his back and sparked to life a shimmering energy blast in his palm which gave off long wavy strands of power that wove its way around his arm.

William Blake swung open the door and gasped. Rain poured down outside, thunder bellowing in the distance, lightning cracking the sky in half. But that's not what caught his attention: stood in front of the door, dripping wet, was a dark, angry figure whose eyes were a bright, green fire that echoed their fury and bloodlust…..

* * *

**

* * *

**

Ok people, SO SORRY about the cliffhanger and the shortness of the chapter. I'm going on a trip tomorrow (Sunday, February 21

**st****) to DC (woo hoo! I can't wait to go to the Smithsonian!!!) and I can't write there, cry cry, I know. So this will be the last chapter for a few days! Again, sorry for the cliffhanger, but don't worry, the NEXT chapter you get to learn who it is, and they will change EVERYTHING about the story…DUM DEE DUM DUM!!! Hahaha. Ok, so, review PLEASE, I love reading peoples reviews, so do that. And also, I'm kinda sick, whoch I like NEVER get sick, so I'm mad, and I feel blah, so that's why his chapter was short. But yeah, I don't know when I'll be back from DC, but then I will write again, I think our last day there is Thursday, but I'm not sure. Ok, so by the next weekend, I will have the next chapter up. I know that's different from every day like usual, but hey, at least I'm giving you the story, SO STOP COMPLAINING! Ok, well, answer PM me or review and tell me who YOU think the mysterious figure is that….Oops, almost ruined it there for ya. Wow, I'm writing a lot for an after message, but this is fun! Ok, (wow, I say Ok a lot) I guess I'll let you go now………….NOT! Kidding, ok, go read my OTHER story. Yeah, and I'm working on a Twilight story too people, so all my Twilight fans, you can finally rest at night! Again, kidding, I know the world doesn't revolve around me (someday….someday….). But again, PM me about what I should write about on Twilgiht if u people have any ideas, but I am NOT writing about the Cullens or Jacob's pack; everyone does that. So PM me if you have any ideas about that story.**

**Bye People of Earth and Puerto Rico!!!**

**Shaneltz**

**p.s. you guys are gonna start hating when I leave these after messages, because I always leaved them when I go on a trip. Lol! But this isn't going to be a long trip! Ok, I'm gonna go before I start writing a really long after message like the one above this one. Wow, I just looked at it, IT'S REALLY LONG!!! Woo! This is fun. Ok, Bye people…..**


	11. Arrival

"Scathach?!" William Blake gasped as the Shadow walked around him and into the warm air. She was soaking wet and her combat boots and leather fighting clothes were shining in the dim firelight, the water droplets sparkling as they ran down her form.

He had heard that the Warrior had been thrown into the Seine by the strange creature known as Dagon, but he knew she was anything but dead. Scathach had no need to breathe, although he had bet that she was very angry: she hated getting wet.

She was of the Next Generation, and one of the higher of the Vampire Clans: she had no thirst for blood, but instead fed – which she rarely needed to – on the emotions of those _willingly_ given to her; the emotion of pain…..

"Yes, Blake, it is me," she muttered as she threw herself down on a Victorian styled loveseat that came from that age itself.

William closed the door quietly behind him and then leaned his back against it, his arms folded across his chest, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.

Scathach rolled her eyes as she removed her combat boots and tight leather jacket and placed them both near the burning fireplace. She sighed and shook her head side to side slowly, her bright emerald eyes closed in deep thought.

"Why have you come?" He asked. The Warrior couldn't have gone to many Elders, Next Generation, or Immortal Humans – all but a pinch were allied with the Dark Elders and wanted her head on a plate – but why him? Surely she could've gone to the Comte de Saint-Germain? And he had even heard that the Maid of Orleans had returned to the city. And her aunt, Nano Hayes, the Celtic witch (although she was as much of a witch as the Witch of Endor herself was) still lingered around the Graveyard of the Holy Innocents, where Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel were even "buried". But out of all of the few allies the Shadow could've gone to, she had gone to _him_, and why?

Scathach looked away from the young immortal human into the blazing fire that seemed to leap and rise while under her gaze. "Dark forces have come to Paris, and they have attacked my dearest of friends…"

* * *

Joan of Arc's hand hovered precariously centimeters from the tall, thick, burgundy door.

"Just knock on the blasted door before I blow it up!" Saint-Germain was cold, wet, aggravated, and just plain angry.

"I was just thinking, that's all," Joan whispered incoherently, her back still to her husband.

He rested a hand on her shoulder as he spoke: "I apologize for the harshness of my voice, my love. Now, what troubles you?"

"We are bringing William into this mass of chaos, just like Nicholas did to us. While we do not regret his choice and are glad he came to us," the count nodded in agreement, "I don't think Nicholas ever forgave himself for what he did, putting us, and Paris, in danger like that."

"Oh, Joan," Saint-Germain said pleadingly, convincingly, "he had not the choice; and neither do we."

She nodded again and rapped sharply on the door. There was a long – too long – pause, and then they saw a tiny globe of light slowly moving to the door through the windows along the side of the mansion.

Joan took a deep breathe, this was it. "No going back now…"

* * *

"Who could that be at this late of an hour?" William Blake said rather annoyed. Visitors he loved, entertaining, serving. Oh, he enjoyed it all too much. But late at night was when he did his painting, and he did not like to be interrupted while painting.

He already knew that he was going to be pulled into something the second Scathach had shown up at the door. She had just begun to recount her story of how she had gone to Saint-Germain and Joan's house and had fund it almost destroyed, burned by marks not from the count. So she had nowhere else to go. She knew that he had been spotted eating at the Auberge Nicolas Flamel (he loved the shrimp there), and so she searched the city for the most ancient of spots, knowing that he would need a quick exit (he had many enemies in the city) like a leygate, and she had found the mansion.

William shook his head. He wasn't a very old immortal human. Not even a century! And yet he was probably the most interesting of all for the way he _became_ immortal…

He stretched out his hand and grasped the brass door handle, making a quick mental note where all the leygates were in the house and that they were appropriately set with mirrors, and….

The white light hissed out and they were plunged into darkness, the only sounds the pounding rain and the yells from the young and artistic immortal human.

Of course Scatty didn't make a sound as she unsheathed her weapons and ran to the front door…


	12. United We Stand

"Joan!" Scathach screamed as she dashed to embrace her most beloved friend. "But how? I went to your home, I saw the damage!"

"Perhaps, we should let them dry off and get warm before be façade them with questions, hmm?" William suggested.

Besides being absolutely soaked and completely exhausted, the two seemed fine. No deep wounds, no permanent scars, just some cuts, slashes, and bruises; nothing that couldn't be mended.

Scatty nodded as she led the two into the living room to the fireplace that was still ablaze and effortlessly slid two large, Victorian chairs in front of the blazing flames as William Blake descended deep into the mansion to find towels and warms blankets for the two. Despite the size of the house from the outside, it had high ceilings and only two floors, but the room count was tremendous, so many that William doubted he had even begun to visit them all; and some, he thought, should remain unvisited with their doors securely locked. Those were the rooms he _had_ visited and wished by all means that he hadn't.

When he returned he draped some towels around Joan's shoulders, and nodded respectfully as he gently handed the rest to Saint-Germain. He sat next to Scathach then, with the woolen blankets folded neatly on his lap for the precise moment when the couple would need them. He saw that Scatty stared and hinted at being uncomfortable with the closeness of him, but he pretended not to notice as the two began their story of terror.

They told them of how their house had been attacked and Joan had single-handedly defeated the sorcerer, Grigory Rasputin. About the count's encounter with the powerful and infamous Elder, Prometheus (which Scathach shifted uncomfortably and her eyes became distant and cloudy at the mention of her uncle's name) and of Penthiselea in Paris, which both the Shadow and William agreed was bad, very bad. And last how Anne Boleyn had rushed them while they were weak and depleted, and the deranged woman may have won, if Joan had not mustered the very remnants of her silver aura and targeted them all at her, amazing especially after creating the silver supernova back at their house.

"Aye, Anne Boleyn is an interesting case. She has an Elder Master, although even she couldn't have helped her sanity, who is deadly, powerful, and absolutely evil," William paused, looking at each of their faces in turn.

"Who William?" Joan asked quietly. Her knowledge of the Elder world was not as profound like her husband's and even his was obviously not as deep as William's.

"Kali, also known as Nemesis by the Greeks, but their depictions of her do not do her justice…" He left the sentence hanging, fear almost tangible in the air. They all had heard of Kali, she was worse than both the Disir and the Amazons combined, and she was at least five-times as powerful. And she was ruthless and barbaric, demanding human sacrifices from her followers, sacrifices that must be carried out while the victim is alive…

"Would Kali come to Paris? The Elders usually do not fight their servants fights," Scathach said, unphased by the revelation of Kali. She had faced down Elders, and while there were a few, Odin, Hekate, Danu, who she could not defeat, the Black Goddess was not one of them.

William shook his head slowly, reentering the room with a tray of refreshments. He handed Joan tea which he had been saving for the next time he saw the Frenchwoman, which she mouthed her thanks and snuggled up into the blanket he handed her as well. Saint-Germain took hot chocolate but refused the blanket, saying he was warm enough but thanking him none the less. William laid the tray on a small table by the doorway to the kitchen and raised one eyebrow at Scathach in a silent question, but she simply shook her head.

"I do not need to drink, dear William. Now, answer my question, it is vital."

William crouched forward on the couch and shook his head, a steaming cup of tea in his hands. He looked back up, deep thought in his clear eyes.

"She would not come; despite what she tells, she is afraid of the World of Man, of the humani. We represent the future, and she knows the Time of the Elders is past, and that scares her more than anything." William rose and walked to the window, the full moon casting an eerie glow on his face, giving it a skeletal look. "Do any of you know how I became immortal?" Naturally, they all shook their heads silently. William smiled, laying his tea on the windowsill. "Good! I always love a good story. Let me tell you:

"When I was younger, and an artist, I always had a love for adventure and seeing the world. So, one year, I decided that I would go out and see the world, every last bit of it. So, late that autumn, I packed my things and set out for the biggest cities of America…first. Then I went to Brazil and all the tropical wonder of South and Central America, flying through Oceania and to Australia after that. I traveled, angrily, through Southeast Asia and throughout all the wonders of the mother continent, and then back to Europe and finally London. But of course, there was still Africa. Mind you, it was still vaguely explored back then, and I think that is what enticed me to go there. My dear family tried to persuade me not to go, but I went anyway, into the Dark Continent.

"I traveled to Egypt first, and then to Mali, Algeria, and the Canary Islands. I traveled to Zaire, and the Congo, to Sudan and Rhodesia, which has now been renamed. But, it was the heart of Africa where my greatest adventure ever was.

"When we were on a hike to a remote tribe somewhere deep in Africa, my guide refused to go any further. I thought he was just superstitious, so I carried on, ignoring the signs and warnings that bade me to turn back. When I reached the foot of a mountain which I doubt you'll be able to find today, for I have searched, I met a strange tribe that claimed to be of the first among the earth. I asked them to take me to the mountain, and only one young boy accepted, if I would take him to a town so he could buy a train ticket out of there, for he did not believe the evil stories and myths and legends of his people, although his knowledge was profound in them.

"So he took me to the mountain. We traveled through ancient ruins and unbelievably large trees, which the boy warned me not to touch, so I did not. We ascended slowly up the mountain; the boy told me that there were ancient and evil creatures that guarded the mountain, and they were attracted to movement. I asked him what these creatures were; he just looked at me and whispered, 'the shadows'. Then they attacked." Joan covered her mouth with her hand, horrified. Scathach and Saint-Germain exchanged skeptic looks, but said nothing.

"The boy was taken and killed, I ran and made it up to the top of the mountain, where the huge ragged and pointed base of a tree laid, and I crawled into it to escape the creatures. They did not venture within the ring, but I could see them from afar, waiting for me to move. I stayed there for two days, eating the food from my pack and drinking the plenty water I brought; it _was_ Africa, I was prepared.

The next day, I grew tired and, in rage stabbed the earth with the dagger I had. The sun had made me dizzy, and I wasn't quite in my right mind then. But long cracks began to spread out from the dagger stab, and I began to fear. But the bottom of the trunk fell in, a sharp seventy feet below I fell into crystal waters, but the waters surrounded something, a glowing cave, something I did not believe in: the Cradle of Life."

"Impossible!" Saint-Germain yelled, standing up. He had spoken for the first time since he had entered the mansion, and the blood had rushed to his face and he began to feel unstable from getting up so fast. "The Cradle of Life rested upon Danu Talis! It is that very site that the Elders built the Pyramid of the Sun on!"

William shrugged. "At once, yes, but the Cradle moves. It travels somehow, and it had been at that time in Africa." Saint-Germain sat slowly, anger streaked across his face.

"Anyway," he continued, "The last thing to come from the Cradle of Life were the Elders, so when I discovered it, the huge mass of power inside it swirled around me, and my aura must've absorbed the energy, even I am not sure of the exact details."

"Amazing," Scathach whispered, which Saint-Germain answered with a sharp huff, "so many Elders would give anything to study yo-…" She stopped, realizing her words, but William just smiled and nodded his head. Many Elders were "scientists" in their own right, and enjoyed dissecting creatures and studying them; and William Blake was definitely a rare case.

"That is why I am immune to Elder Magic," William said proudly. Scatty blinked, surprised, but Joan and the count remained unphased by the revelation.

Scathach cleared her throat suddenly, standing up, allowing William to sit. "It seems Joan and Saint-Germain have enemies whom they must fight, and they must win or lose, there is no in between, and their attackers know that. I will stand beside Joan of Arc in whatever she does, and I _will not_ falter," Joan nodded in appreciation. "But, what of you William? Will you assist us in this attack?"

He touched a pale finger to his chin and tapped it twice, thinking. "Yes, I think I will. They are my friends, and, although Scathach is extremely powerful, you will need me to help you with all the Elder Magic flying around; I will be an invaluable ally," he said happily.

"Indeed," Saint-Germain muttered bitterly.

Joan stood and he husband followed as she walked over to where her best friend was standing and put her hand in the still air between them. Scathach stacked hers atop hers, and Saint-Germain copied the action. William Blake, with a broad smile on his face, put his hand on top.

Scathach look at each of the faces in turn, smiling, her green eyes sparkling with hope of victory as she spoke.

"United we stand…"


	13. Divided They Will Fall

"…divided they will fall."

Grigory Rasputin lowered the binoculars from his eyes and looked at the artist's mansion through his normal, crystal clear vision. He threw the binoculars to the stones beneath him, having no use for him now that he had clarified that his enemy was in there, with Joan of Arc and William Blake.

He knew he couldn't defeat the three _together_, Saint-Germain's Fire Magic was extraordinary, and Joan had proved herself not only powerful as a warrior but also as a sorceress, but he had no idea what the artist could do; and that scared him the most. But divided they would fall. They could not stand alone, and so he would use that to his advantage!

He bent low to the ground and rested his calloused hand on the stones that led to the north side of the mansion, and let his aura drain into it, the odor of saltwater filling the air. And sure enough, dirty blue ice veins began to slither up the walkway…slowly…slowly…

He would have his revenge.

* * *

Penthiselea ran quickly, determined, following the aura scents of her prey. She wanted Joan of Arc, and _she _wanted to be the one to kill her, and no deranged, ex-queen was going to stop her! Her bare feet made a squelching sound as they rose and fall on the wet Parisian streets. She was not cold, as a matter of fact, she was warm, she was _always _warm.

The Queen of the Amazons ran faster now that she picked up another auric scent following Joan's and Saint-Germain's, a blue and gray one, and she smelled Elder Magic within it. She would kill the Maid of Orleans, her, not…any…other! Her aura blazed with her rage as she ran faster, fury giving her energy, fueling her.

She whirled around the corner and she was suddenly facing the west side of the mansion, and she could sense four auras within it, but that did not bother her; one was another humani and the other a Next Generation.

She would kill them all.

* * *

Anne Boleyn exited the narrow alley and appeared at the south side of the mound that was crowned with the house of William Blake, the house that cradled her killer. She had not anticipated Saint-Germain showing up, but it was a minor problem, easily dealt with.

Fire Magic worked best in sunlight: check, it was almost one o' clock at night. It could not work in moving water: check, it was raining. It shouldn't be used when one was weak, it could bounce back and burn them: check, he had been attacked by others at his house, he, along with Joan, would be _exhausted_.

She saw no flaw in her plan, just the glorious ending where _she_ won. Saint-Germain's body could be thrown into the river Seine when she was done. It would be so black and disfigured no one would be able to even tell it had been a person! She cackled to herself; insanity filled the angry look in her eyes.

Bloodlust did too.

* * *

Prometheus, one of the most revered of the Elder Race, stood atop a flat-roofed, apartment building overlooking the east side of the house. Saint-Germain was in there, his crimson aura flashing, burnt leaves filling his nostrils as he focused on him.

He had the Magic of Fire, he had stolen it, and Prometheus was going to get it back. Fire was the driving force for him, it was everything, his Alpha and his Omega, but it had been taken from him.

And he would get it back if it killed him.

Prometheus focused on Francis le Comte de Saint-Germain more closely, his aura beginning to pulse under the unfelt pressure of Elder Magic. He would not feel it, maybe pins and needles at his skin, but nothing more, and he would definitely not suspect that it was his old arch-enemy who was focusing on him. The Secret of Fire flowed through Saint-Germain's veins, giving him life, making him immortal.

And Prometheus planned to rip it out of him.

* * *

Then, as if by one signal, the four very different enemies surged forward in an attack on the four unsuspecting victims within the mansion.


	14. Ambush

William Blake stood up and walked to the window, resting his hand on the ledge of wall that jutted in where the glass began. His brow was furrowed and his expression was set into one of confusion.

"The thing I don't get is: why? Why now? Why are all these people attacking you?" He said looking away from the window to stare at Joan and then Saint-Germain.

"Well, we know that Prometheus wants the Secret of Fire back," Joan said, looking at her husband for reassurance, who nodded.

"Naturally," William agreed.

"And the others," Saint-Germain said, stretching stiff limbs as he got up off the chair, "are all just a matter of coincidence: Rasputin picked this time to attack for revenge, and so did Anne Boleyn. The only one who had not fallen prey to coincidence is, I believe, Penthiselea, with whom we must assume that she left the jungle of the Amazon as soon as she felt her sisters, the Disir, "die", and took a while to come here, not taking a leygate."

William tapped his chin, thinking. "Perhaps, but I was thinking of something more…_less accidental_."

Scathach stood, her brow furrowing. "Are you saying that some force summoned these four together in an attack?"

He shrugged. "I am unsure of _nothing_ at the moment, but, coincidence it may be, it just seems _too_ coincidental."

Suddenly, his words were raptured torn by the slashing of glass as all the windows in the house, as one, exploded; except for the window that William had his hand rested by, which showed no sign of damage. Scathach flipped out her gleaming swords, the lightning fast metal humming as it buzzed through the air. Joan flashed into fully-clad armor, complete with two-handed sword, and flames exploded in Saint-Germain's hands, twisting into intricate patterns up his arms.

"What happened?" Joan asked imperviously, unsure herself. Glass was everywhere – on the ground, edged into the carpet, scattered on the bookshelves, lodged into the wall itself – and it crunched where she walked over to a shattered window frame and looked out.

William lifted his hand, looking at it, and then nodding in understanding. "It is Elder Magic, this window was immune, and I was standing near it, close enough for it to be touched by my aura." He looked at each of their faces, his words slow and monotone. "And Penthiselea has not the power…" He left the sentence trailing, letting them all come to their own conclusions.

"Prometheus," Saint-Germain hissed, speaking the name in all of their heads. He rushed for the front door, his left thumb pressed gently to the trigger on his right wrist that would enable him absolute power over Fire Magic. Scathach and Joan jumped through a smashed window, and William trailed behind the count through the door, his aura blazing a shrill white. Outside, they found…

…Chaos.

The whole grassy, earthen yard that was out of place in the center of Paris frozen and scattered with frost crystals, the grass turn an ugly white. Ugly vultures perched in the leafless trees, eyeing them with bloody curiosity, and eagles sat at the very top of the mansion, and the atmosphere was thick, almost tangible.

And then they attacked, as one.

Penthiselea and Anne Boleyn rushed Joan of Arc, who was caught by surprise and tried her best to balance the sword in one hand against the hunting blades of the Amazon while protecting herself from the incantations of Anne. Scathach's blade suddenly clattered between Joan's and Penthiselea's, and she parried away the vicious woman's swords. Scatty's two Asian styled swords clanged and hummed as the hit and spun of her enemy's, who began to sweat and feel the pressure of fighting brought on by Scathach's amazing skill. Joan tried to swing hits at Anne, but the Queen just dodged and threw a glowing orb or cube that would soon explode, so Joan de-focused her aura, taking all her energy from armor and sword, to spells and incantations, shooting rapid-fire magic at the deranged woman, who just cackled at the Frenchwoman's rush of power.

Rasputin rushed out from seemingly nowhere and shot a volley of deadly icicles as Saint-Germain, but William slid in front of him and the ice melted the moment it touched his aura, which was now blazing. He just looked back at the count and winked. Prometheus joined the siege as he dropped from above, his eagles diving towards them all, aiming for their eyes. Saint-Germain tried to get a hit at the Elder, his anger boiling, but William urged him to attack Rasputin, because Prometheus could not harm him with his magic, and therefore must do physical harm. Meanwhile, the ugly vultures joined the battle, summoned by the Queen of the Amazons, and were intricately weaving in and out of the eagles' flight pattern, who just flew and attacked where they could.

And so, the siege began.


	15. The Siege

Scathach didn't think as she fought. Her movements were fluid, lithe, and she never paused. No, she never paused to let the enemy a chance to strike.

Penthiselea, the Queen of the Amazons, was covered in bruises and scratches, and she was panting and covered in sweat. Her face was red and her aura would crack now and then, it, also, was exhausted.

But the warrior queen never faltered or miss-stepped. She kept up the pace with Scatty, and never let the Warrior get a direct hit; always a bump of the hilt from the side, or the tip of her sword on her stomach, never fatal. She knew it was because she was losing control of the fight, but she also realized that it wouldn't even give Scathach a s false sense of pride, a underestimation that would give her the one hit she needed; Scathach was flawless. This was the pain-devouring vampire that had faced down armies and Elders, and even a few armies _of_ Elders. This was the Shadow, the one creature that would not, could not, be defeated.

Meanwhile, Joan was growing frustrated. Her spells would narrowly missed Anne Boleyn…every time. She remembered when she had attempted to kill the deranged woman in the alley, and the sword had scraped off an invisible casing on her face, and she began to wonder if there was something more, something else…

Her thoughts were shattered by a huge ball of auric energy shot by Anne. It sent Joan falling to her feet, right by Anne and hitting the hard earth. But when she had fallen, she had heard a sharp tinkling sound, like the sound of something small; valuable…something that Joan needed to see. She jumped to her feet, a new fire burning in her eyes. She had heard it while she fell by Anne, which meant it, was located on her right side.

Joan feinted left, and then lunged to the right, shoving her fist forcefully and deep into her side. It made her twitch and fall to the ground, a look of terror on her face. Joan pressed her middle and index finger of her right hand to Anne Boleyn's forehead, and she immediately fell unconscious. Poor Anne, that was the second time in that night that the exact same spell had been used on her.

Joan searched frantically, trying to find the cause of the tinkling, and hoping dearly that it was some magical charm and it had protected her. Then she felt something that made her jump, disgusted. She had felt a bump _under the skin_ along Anne's side, along her ribs. She focused her aura, creating a small dagger, and…slowly and carefully cut along the bump. She dissolved the dagger seeing sparks fly around the wound from Anne's wound; she was protected from the wound, no blood came, and she doubted it would remain open for long. Joan slid her fingers into the cut…

…and then her fingers came across something _furry._ She grasped it between her two fingers and extracted the item that was no longer than her index finger. It was a rabbit's foot! And there was a black chain hanging along it, and some strange markings etched into it and the fur seemed to be charred at the ends, but other than that, it was definitely a rabbit's foot! So that was it! Luck! Anne Boleyn had relied on simple incantations from ancient times to protect her! It was risky, but it seemed to of pulled off. But then what was the ringing sound? There was no way Joan had heard the tinkling of the chain _inside_ of Anne.

Joan rattled around more, searching pockets, until she found a long, rainbow chain that connected to a golden pocket watch that seemed to be counting down to something. She had found the rabbit's foot – the secret behind Anne's immunity – by complete accident! She smiled; it seemed luck was on _her_ side!

Meanwhile, Saint-Germain and Rasputin were locked in a chain of explosive energy. A huge, slowing ice sheet gushed from Rasputin's hands, his teeth were gritted together, and his pupils had grown in size, giving him a devilish appeal. A eruption of fire bust forth from Saint-Germain's palms. The myriad colors swirled into intricate patterns and danced in the air. The assortment of color – red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and even purple – spiraled through each other glowing in a rainbow nimbus around them.

William Blake pushed his aura farther and farther out, encircling first Saint-Germain in an Elder-immune shield, and slowly spreading towards Scathach and Joan. Prometheus still was trying petty spells and useless cantrips against his aura, but the just dissolved into nothingness, becoming little more than dust.

"It is not possible…" Prometheus said in awe. He had been over all seven continents, lived on the lost continents of Danu Talis and Mu, he had stolen the Secret of Fire from Tan Madol at the heart of the empire of the Others and had faced down monsters who had no right to live outside the imagination, but he had never seen a being who was completely immune to Elder Magic.

Scathach and Joan of Arc were no encompassed, the Warrior willingly entering the auric shield because she had no need for magic, and she doubted, being Next generation, that she could even call upon the Elder Magic at all; few Next Generation could. But she fought on, pushing Penthiselea harder and harder; surely, she thought, the Queen of the Amazons cannot last much longer…

"How can you do such thing?" Prometheus wondered aloud.

William smiled coldly, his perfect white teeth gleaming. "It's called the Cradle of Life," he said, focusing huge chunks of his aura into his hands, "look it up!" He hurled the collected energy at the Elder, who went sprawling far down the little hill, rolling into an alley.

Saint-Germain and Rasputin's energies had disappeared and they now fought, poorly, hand-to-hand. _Saint_-Germain, being younger when he became immortal, was obviously the better fighter, diving in and out of hits and punches from the sorcerer, and then rushing in and delivering a blow. Rasputin's breathing was heavy, and his body ached and strained to keep up; he was rather old when he became immortal, and his body had been exhausted and labored back then, and even his waning aura could even keep up with the counts.

Saint-Germain suddenly wrapped his foot around Rasputin's heel, and pulled; toppling him to the ground. He shot William, who immediately understood, a glance, and hi aura pulled back, revealing them to the outside world.

"Reap what you have sown, Grigory Rasputin!" He said, collecting myriad flames in his hands, and shoving them in one incredible pulse, at the sorcerer. The flames dances around the _khlysty,_ but Saint-Germain didn't stick around to see the full extent of the damage, which he knew would be severe. He ran behind William Blake, exhausted and panting the both of them, Joan joining them, smiling, silver smoke curling from her fingers, and a massive pile of mist encircling Anne's limp body.

Scathach continued to press the Queen of the Amazons, shoving her pass the edge, forcing her into surrender. But her pride was too great, and she would never yield to a Next Generation. She still spun her hunting blades and they curved through the air, spitting sparks off of Scatty's Asian blades, scratching the ancient calligraphy etched eternally in them. Then, lavender suddenly filled the air as Joan of Arc, in full battle armor and brandishing a gleaming sword, raced over to the Shadow's side, joining in the fight.

"What are you doing? You must rest!" Scathach shouted angrily.

Joan just smiled and spun her sword, clattering it against Penthiselea's thin blades. "I was always a fighter, not a magician; my place is here, in the battle, standing by you."

Scatty smiled and, if they could flow, tears would've streamed down her face in happiness. "Not 'by me', you will fight _with_ me."

Then, as one, the two warrior women, pushed their sword against the deranged and fatigued woman, pushing her down as she finally settled into unconsciousness.

And the siege had been won.

* * *

Scathach slung a backpack filled with assorted dangerous and equally exotic weapons over her back and hurried beside the others who were waiting by the door.

"We don't have long," William said quietly, "they will be waking from their unconsciousness; although, some will be waking in worse shape than others," at this, he turned and winked at Saint-Germain who smiled in return.

"But where will we go?" Joan asked, looking first at her husband's, and then turning to William's.

Scathach and the artist exchanged a glance, and the Warrior nodded, her face expressionless.

"We shall go," William Blake said, his aura flashing into existence briefly, "to the center of the City of Lights; to the Heart of Paris.


	16. Revelations

"I was born here, I was raised here, I even fought here, and I have never heard of this place you speak of," Joan said, irritated as they walked down the simple streets of Paris. The sun was beginning to peek out from behind the event horizon far away, and pink and orange light streaked the sky above the apartment buildings. Dew scattered the cobblestone pathways that were scattered through the City of Lights and made it all the more beautiful.

"It is the very center of Paris; the very point that the city was built around. It is called Ile de la Cite, and it is one of the only two islands in the Seine," William Blake explained again, sounding very patient. "It is ancient, holy, and powerful land; the Cathedral of Notre Dame is there, and, well, beneath the isle I believe there is something else…"

"What is it? What is down there?" Saint-Germain asked fervently. The artist, in his opinion, knew too much and he was surprised that the Elders hadn't already disposed of him.

He just looked over his shoulder and smiled. "Mars Ultor is not the only Sleeping God in this city."

"William, why are we going to the center of the city? What is there for us?" Scathach asked. She did not like to be taken somewhere she had no idea of. While she had heard of the cathedral, she did not know it had rested on an _island_ in the main river of Paris…and possibly France.

"The Cathedral of Notre Dame was built on a pagan temple that was dedicated to an ancient and powerful goddess, and the Romans used the temple site as a fort to defend themselves against the barbarian tribe of Visigoths that had dominated most of Europe around that time," he said, his voice calm and rather perky for someone who's house had just been attacked. "And that temple was built on the site where the Elders first touched ground on this planet."  
"Impossible!" Scathach and Saint-Germain both shouted.

William shook his head, his face impassive. "It is true, and the first Elder ever born in this world and died both occurred on the Ile de la Cite. It is the most ancient of land; and it is the Heart of Paris. The Elders called the isle "Illumina", or, "The Illuminated Isle". It was the center of the Elder World before they dragged Danu Talis up from the beneath the waves."

Scathach shook her head, her expression caught between anger and sadness. "I did not know this. Why did I not know this?"

"There is no reason you should have," William said dismissively. Considering his age, he knew more about the Elder Race than Saint-Germain, Joan, or even Scathach; and his knowledge also probably surpassed many Elders'.

"How do _you_ know all of this, William?" Saint-Germain hissed. He held Joan closer, unwillingly to trust the artist. There just seemed something about him, something peculiar, something _unnatural_. Yes! That was the word! Unnatural was what William Blake was.

He shrugged. "A few decades ago, I came across a book…"

Saint-Germain groaned in agony. "Not a book!" William looked over his shoulder, his brow furrowed and expression confused. The count explained, "The last time a book was involved, Nidhogg almost destroyed all of Paris and Hekate was murdered; not to mention Mars Ultor was awakened, and despite his being trapped down there in the catacombs, there is no way they will hold him for long. So all in all, ancient books with profound knowledge in them are bad."

William smiled. "This was the Book of Cleo. It contains all the history of the world and it is still being written today."

"Who is writing this book?" Joan asked, perplexed. She knew enough mythology to know that Cleo was the Muse of History in Greek Mythology, but Elder Muses she knew nothing of.

"Who knows? The book was lost around the New Millennium; the year 2000. But anyway," he continued, "I came across the Book of Cleo, also known as the Arcana, and I spent years decoding its strange language. You see, while the Book of Abraham the Mage contains spells and incantations, cantrips and charms, the Arcana contains every last dying secret in the history of the world. There are lists of immortal humans and Elders, charts of the hidden chambers and underground passageways throughout the earth, and there are even instructions for intricate experiments. The Arcana is extremely powerful…and equally dangerous."

"So then how did you lose it, William?" Scathach asked cautiously. She knew not to pry, but, again, she had never heard of this and she was beginning to become enthralled by the knowledge that he, William Blake, alone possessed.

"It's a long story…" He said dismissively, ignoring the information-hungry stares he received from his companions.

"It's a long walk to the Ile de la Cite," Scathach said with an evil smile.

"Alright, alright, I will tell you. The Elder, Athena, requested it from me. As you know, she is not one of the most ancient and powerful Elders, like Odin, Danu, Hekate, and Areop-Enap, but she is the daughter of Odin, although the stories of her being born from his skull I am doubtful of. But anyway, she is the wisest of the Elders, and she is extremely powerful she could pass as one of the Great Elders, and she is commanding. So I gave her the book around the 1980's, and a few years later, she sent her constant companion, Nike, the Winged Goddess of Victory, to return the book to my surprise. Athena had copied it down and told me in a few years she would need it back to write down the more recent history that would occur in those years that it was back in my care. But after Athena had "borrowed" it, more and more Elders knew of the Arcana, and, late in the night, it was stolen by Nyx, Elder of darkness. She, like her brother who ruled the Underworld Shadowrealm, she can become darkness and shadow. But I heard that some of the Great Elders took the book away from her, but that is the last I heard of it."

"So who created this book?" Saint-Germain asked. William said he knew not of the powers that kept writing in it and recording history, but perhaps the origins of the book itself would be written in the book.

"I believe that a race before the Elders created it, because the history of the Others within the Arcana is sketchy, but that could've been done by one of the Elders. I believe that the Ents, or Treefolk, created the Book of Cleo."

"Ents?" Joan asked.

"Yes, they are, er, like walking trees. They are the Tree Shepards, and the women Treefolk, the Entwives, assisted men in agriculture after the Witch of Endor returned to Danu Talis. They are an ancient and powerful race, and very few exist today, but they are still here…watching…waiting…," William Blake finished ominously.

"Waiting for what?" Joan was curious about the Ents. They fascinated her, and she wanted to learn so much more. She knew myriad tales through folklore and mythology about talking and walking trees; trees that seemed like a cross between the earth and men, and were of great size. Could these be the Ents?

"Waiting for the time when the humani have passed, and the Elders who will reclaim this earth will be gone; and even the Were Clans have disappeared from this earth, the Ents will reclaim it as their own, and they shall see to it to repair the earth in a way that even the Elder Race can not do," William explained, and the tone of his voice indicated that the subject of Ents was closed.

"So…why are we going to Ile de la Cite? What awaits us there?" Saint-Germain asked. He looked up at the sky to see the blinking sun rising above the not-to-distant Seine.

William stopped in the middle of the cobblestone street that was beginning to thicken with the morning Parisians. "I believe there is a force behind the attacks on you two," he nodded at Saint-Germain and Joan as he began to walk again, quickening his pace. "And that force, be it Elder or something _else_, will reside in the most ancient spot of Paris: Ile de la Cite. And plus, the Book of Cleo has a minor prophecy among many that I believe speaks of this time."

"Great, _more_ prophecies…" Scathach grumbled to herself angrily.

"What does this prophecy say, William?" Joan asked, shooting Scatty a sharp glance.

William cleared his throat loudly. "Well, the details are rather scratchy, but I believe it goes something like this:

"_When Fire and Silver have rested in the city filled with light,_

_Four shall return from their past and attack._

_Then the Shadow shall awaken from the depths and join with the Silver,_

_And the one who does not feel ancient magic shall unite with them._

_Three battles shall take place, and the final battle will occur on the most ancient of land,_

_An island in the center of a city that is the ancient of days, in an ancient temple._

_At the last battle, three shall die, and one shall disappear._

_And one shall be lost to the shadows, once more."_

"And exactly what does that mean?" Saint-Germain said rather annoyed, his usual mellow attitude had evaporated. He hated cryptic prophecies and arcane codes; why couldn't people just _say_ what they wanted people to know! Why did it all have to be in code?

"Well," William began, his voice sounding unsure, "I know that 'Fire and Silver' are you two, Fire referring to how you know Fire Magic, and Silver meaning Joan's aura. And you had just settled back down in Paris, the City of Lights, after your house as destroyed by the Disir and Nidhogg, correct?" They nodded. "'Four shall return from their past and attack' clearly refers to Prometheus, Rasputin, Penthiselea, and Anne Boleyn, who you all have a not-so-happy past with.

"The line about 'the Shadow' refers to Scathach, obviously, and how she returned from being dragged down into the Seine by Dagon." Joan and Saint-Germain blinked suspiciously at him, unsure of how he knew so much. "Scathach told me before you arrived," he said simply, answering their silent questions. "The one who "does not feel ancient magic' would be me, being immune to Elder Magic and all, so that one is clear. 'Three battles shall take place', we have been attacked twice by them so far, and only once more will they attack us. 'The final battle will occur on the most ancient of land'; the most ancient land in all of Europe, Asia, and possibly the world, is Ile de la Cite, so that is where the final battle will take place. And then the prophecy says that is an island in a river, which few rivers have islands, the Seine being one of them, so it is clear that we must go to the Ile de la Cite." They were crossing a bridge that led to the strange and unique isle, and they would soon arrive there.

"But it also says that the final battle will take place in a temple," Scathach interjected quickly.

William pursed his lips, fear in his expression. "Yes, that is what I fear. The only "temple" on the isle is the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and I cannot bear to have anyone, any_thing_, fighting in there. It is a holy and ancient place, and it shall not be desecrated."

"What about the rest of the prophecy?" Joan asked, her voice small and weak, filled with fear.

"Well, the part where it says that three will die is clear; let us pray that it will be the enemy and none of us. And the line about someone being lost, well, that does not really mean that they die, just that they disappear. Let us also hope that it will be none of us."

"But the odds of that are slim," the Warrior said flatly, saying the words everyone was thinking.

"Yes, the odds _are_ very slim," William agreed dryly.

They had arrived at Ile de la Cite, the Illuminated Isle. They had come to Illumina…


	17. Into the Cathedral

"It's beautiful…" Joan stammered as she looked around the park.

"Yes, it is," William agreed with equal awe, but also a hint of sadness was in his voice. "This is the Place Dauphine, the main square of the Ile de la Cite."

The four companions looked all around them at the vaguely triangular shaped square. Trees with glistening lights in them lined the walkways and hid the lower levels of the tall buildings around them. They stood in a huge patch of bright green grass that took up practically the entire area, and the spire of Notre Dame could be seen over the top of the buildings, looking like a tall, skeletal finger jutting into the sky.

"How long do we have?" Scathach said, her eyes darting around them, not trusting anyone and being ready to pounce on any pedestrian who walked by. "It is dangerous for us to be here in the open."

Saint-Germain nodded in agreement. "Yes, we must get prepared, they will be here shortly. They will follow our aura trails."

William smiled and looked at the tall spire of the cathedral. "We must evacuate the chapel; we cannot afford for anyone to be in it when the final battle commences, it will only make chances of success slimmer, not to mention it could destroy the beautiful cathedral even more."

"Prometheus is an ancient Elder, he will not deliberately destroy the cathedral, he will be as reluctant as us to harm it," Joan said, absolute assurance in her voice. "Penthiselea, too, will feel the power there, and she will not destroy the cathedral. Rasputin and Anne on the other hand…"

"Yes, we cannot underestimate those two: they will stop at nothing to kill both of you," the Warrior said solemnly. "Although I doubt that Anne Boleyn will be a problem," she added with a wry smile and a wink at Joan of Arc.

"Then I will handle Rasputin quickly, and this battle, hopefully, will not harm the cathedral," Saint-Germain said proudly, his voice positive.

"Yes…hopefully…" William Blake murmured softly, looking at the ancient and bone-like spire of the Cathedral of Notre Dame.

Despite living in the City of Lights for most of his life, Francis le Comte de Saint-Germain had never been to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. He and Joan had made plans for the next summer to go, and they both craved to see the church. But now he was in it and the only thing he wanted to do was leave. There was a dark, ominous feeling hanging in the air, a waning energy that taunted him. He began to wonder what exactly happened to the Elder Race on this spot, but he knew, whatever it was, it was dark, evil…and bloody.

The inside of Notre Dame looked like the inside of an intricate skeleton. The ceilings had long arches, and the walls were carved from intricate columns of what looked like bone, but they knew it was probably stone. Stain-glass windows shed their rainbow light all through the cathedral; and the infamous Rose Window made the church look all the more holy.

"So how are we going to do this without involving the authorities?" Scathach asked, having a firm grip on her nunchaku that lay hidden from view.

"Oh, yes…well, um, I didn't really get that far in my plan," William said as they moved deeper into the cathedral, walking down the center isle, moving slowly and watching every face that passed them. The building was remarkably empty, but it was late in the tourist season, and it was still early in the morning, barely six a.m., so it was hardly a surprise.

"Well then, we settle with my plan…" Scatty whispered bitterly, grabbing the two swords that rested in the shape of an _X_ across her back.

Saint-Germain rested a hand on the Warrior's, giving her a warning glance. "We cannot afford to have the police involved, and you cannot desecrate this beautiful building; I will not allow it."

"Well what do _you_ suppose we do them, hmm?" She asked, dropping her hands, but resting them on other deadly weapons that could be unleashed at any second.

"We improvise," Saint-Germain replied, rubbing his hands together, sending sparks through the air that sputtered out before they touched anything.

"What do you mean…" William began, but was cut off by a horrible cracking sound ripping through the air, tearing at their eardrums.

"No time to improvise," Scathach, the Warrior, the Shadow, said, unsheathing her two Asian swords and taking up a battle stance. "They're here."

And that was when Hell descended on the Cathedral of Notre Dame as it was attacked…


	18. The Ensnaring

The doors of the Cathedral of Notre Dame were expertly carved, intricate patterns weaving up and down them. An unnamed wood-carver had shaped and molded the wood to look like waves, moving through the, at that time, impenetrable seas.

Now they lay in tiny splinters.

Violet mist curled from Anne Boleyn's palms, her aura indigo aura filling the doorway. Her raven hair billowed in an invisible breeze, her blue eyes sparkling with triumph. She cackled loudly, fear spiraling through the few morning visitors to the chapel.

Joan of Arc's aura snapped alight, filling the air with the scent of lavender, and she focused it until it solidified and became full body armor, complete with sword. Scathach stood by her side, swords unsheathed, glinting deadly in the sun that blasted through the gaping hole in the church. William Blake took up a battle pose, although he did not use his aura, his lips moved wordlessly, talking to invisible figures. Saint-Germain ripped fire into his hands, rainbow colors dancing through the flames.

Anne hesitated at the sight of the four armed and dangerous figures, but she had made up her mind: Joan of Arc _would_ die.

"Surrender," she hissed, her voice rippled with the evidence of her insanity, "or I shall let loose a force that will destroy this building and all within it."

Saint-Germain opened his mouth, but quickly closed it. Words were sharp as any weapon, and they should not be used lightly. They would kill Anne Boleyn, the once powerful queen, and they would do it without a sound; and without damaging the cathedral.

Suddenly, a violent wind laced with ice and cold ripped through the chapel, shattering windows through which it so fervently blew. A chill froze the air, and their breath plumed in the air before them. The wind carried dark curses and evil words, threats and a shattering lexis. Power rippled through the air around them, filling it with the odor of saltwater, although its owner remained hidden.

Anne's eyes darted around her, becoming frantic and filled with paranoia. Her teeth gritted together, anger racing through her being, fueling her, giving her drive. "No one will take my revenge from me…" She whispered to herself furiously, "No one…"

Then, in that instant, the deranged woman lunged, violet plumes of auric energy billowing from her clawed hands as she soared through the air towards them…

…and stopped.

Anne Boleyn froze in the air, her eyes darting around the huge chapel for the source of her stilling, but finding none. Then a tall, dark figure emerged from the shadows, his hand raised, Elder Magic emanating in pulses from him, sending columns of power towards them. Prometheus smiled and turned Anne around to make her face him, a glint in his eyes.

"This is my fight, humani," he said smugly, and, with the twist of his wrist, flung her back through the gaping hole which she had created. He faced the destruction and stretched his hands outwards towards it. The splinters and chips of wood responded to his aura and rapidly flew back into place, rearranging themselves perfectly. He swept his hand high above him in a complete circle, healing the shattered windows. "I will not allow this most ancient of land to be destroyed," he said simply, turning to face the joined forces of Joan, Saint-Germain, William, and Scathach.

The Shadow stepped forward, lowering her swords in the presence of her relative. "Please, Uncle, do not do this. Do not fight them," she waved her sword behind her, pointing at her allies.

Prometheus stepped back in shock at the sight of his niece. "Scathach, my dear, I must have what belongs to me. The Secret of Fire is mine; and no humani should wield it."

The Warrior pursed her lips and backed up to stand between Saint-Germain and Joan. "Then I shall fight you, and we shall not fail."

The Elder shook his head. "Stand aside, Scathach, I do not wish to destroy you also."

Scatty drew back, blinking in surprise. "You think that _you_ can defeat me?" She swallowed a small laugh that almost escaped at the thought. "I have stood against armies the likes of you have never seen, Uncle. It is who I am, and while I am not invincible, my immortality has taught me many things, and many of those things are ways to kill and destroy."

Prometheus dropped his head, shaking it back and forth. When he finally drew his head back up, he had a look of defeat on his face. "While your arrogance is irritating, I will surrender and release my curse upon you, Francis le Comte de Saint-Germain. While you may be of the humani, my niece obviously sees you as fit to wield the Magic of Fire, and so there must be something special about you that I cannot see." He turned away from Saint-Germain and looked back at Scathach. "Your arrogant behavior will be the death of you, Scathach: Warrior, Shadow, Kind Maker, Daemon Slayer. It will be the death of you…" With that, the Elder turned and melted into the shadows, where they heard a high-pitched sound, and he disappeared into the darkness and away from the World of Man.

"One down, three to go," William muttered under his breath.

"Although I doubt the others will be as understanding," Joan said, lowering her sword, but keeping a firm and flexible grip on it.

The aroma of saltwater wafted through the air once more, but this time, the doors to the enormous cathedral burst open, and a dark silhouette stood in the doorway, hunched over and appearing to be in pain. A gray and blue aura flashed around the crippled figure, framing it in murky, shrouded light. It moaned an incomprehensible word, and an ice-laced gale thrashed at them and whipped Joan and Scathach's swords behind them, stabbing them haphazardly in the far wall.

The figure in the doorway stepped out into the light, the four companions gasped abruptly, fear wrenching through them. The sorcerer stepped closer, fully revealing his decrepit form.

Grigory Rasputin's skin was gray and badly burned, red pustules dotted his body. Torn and ragged clothes that had once been his cloak clung to his body, holes scattered through the thin and delicate cloth. His beard was charred and singed, his head only had a few strands of dark hair. His face was inset, giving it a skull-like appearance, and his eyelids drooped, revealing more of his bloodshot eyes that glistened with madness.

Fire Magic, wielded by Saint-Germain, had destroyed him beyond repair; and he intended to return the favor…..


	19. The Clashing

Rasputin's bent form twitched and shifted, moving with surprising speed down the isle, weaving in and out of fireballs, silver spells, and white orbs of light. Saint-Germain, Joan of Arc, and William Blake did everything they could so at long range to slow the sorcerer down, but it only seemed to give him a deranged joy. He cackled and grunted to himself in horrid happiness, his eyes glinting with a newfound madness.

Fire could create, it could bring life, and, in a way, it _was_ life. It could rear a new species and spring them into the peak of existence. But fire could also destroy. It could cripple and twist one's mind, body, and soul to a state that could not be fixed. And fire could push one over the edge of sanity into the realm of madness. And it had done so to Grigory Rasputin.

He no longer cared for his own life; he only thirsted for the blood of the count. He needed to kill him, to murder him, to destroy what had destroyed him in turn. He snarled low and vicious, evil and deadly. Fire Magic had not only destroyed his body; it had mutilated his mind and drove him into insanity.

William Blake backed up slowly, his face stern. He looked at Scathach, who nodded tensely, and ran down the center isle, into the shadows of the cathedral.

"What is he doing?" Joan asked hysterically as she shot silver daggers of energy towards Rasputin. "Where is he running to?"

The Warrior grinned as she unsheathed her deadly swords from behind her. "He has…_other_ priorities," she said flatly, a sliver of amusement coming into her voice as Rasputin neared.

"What? The battle is here!" Saint-Germain said frantically. He turned his head to the side and shouted behind him, "Coward!"

Suddenly, Scathach had gripped his wrist and twisted his neck so that his head was looking at her. When she spoke, her voice was low and intimidating. "There is more than one way to fight an enemy, Saint-Germain. Even if he were to be running, has he not done enough for you? Has he not earned his release?"

Saint-Germain was speechless, his mouth moved, trying to shape words, but he was silent. Then, fluently and skillfully that only millennia of experience could teach, Scathach whirled around clashing her swords with…

…Penthiselea.

The Queen of the Amazons took advantage of the sudden advantage of the Shadow's surprise and whirled her two, long hunting blades in the air, spinning them, making them hum as the slashed towards Scatty. She quickly recovered and threw herself back only inches, the blades slicing through empty air. She twisted and turned, slashing her swords so fast that the clash became invisible, a shifting blur.

Joan turned her attention back to Rasputin, who lay bent on the floor, barely alive. But, she noted, he had barely been alive when he had entered the cathedral. But, on closer inspection, she noticed that he bore no marks of blood, no wounds besides the assortment of burns that etched themselves into his skin and made it glassy and shine, but a deep pink and bloody red. He would suddenly be shoved on way or the next as if punched by an invisible force. _Just_ like an invisible force…

Then she made the connection.

She turned around to see William Blake at the far end of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, his body surrounded in a glowing white light. His aura was pure and flowing, no sparks or tendrils of energy cracked of it. All his energy was being poured into what he was doing…What he was doing for _them._

William Blake had a white aura. Its solid color made him a beacon to the spirit world, calling and guiding shades of the dead to him. Of course, aura's could be covered by color, greens, blues, yellowed, reds, oranges, and even purples, but only with great experience. Lacing his aura with certain colors, green, blue, and especially yellow, made him invisible to the spirit world, for they could not see those colors. He had torn down all the color-barriers to his aura, and now he connected to the ghosts and spirits that still roamed this earth, unable to past into the light. Because Ile de la Cite was one of the most ancient spots in the world, it contained myriad ghosts, hundreds, possibly thousands, of them walked around them, looking for a way out, looking to be saved.

He now commanded them to attack.

Ghosts, while dead, are not powerless. And spirits who had died a violent way, but did not harbor evil thoughts and vengeance, were exceptionally powerful, as were the very old ghosts who had a lot of time to "practice" being a ghost. William told them all to attack the sorcerer, and, in one solid wave, they flooded over him, kicking, punching, ripping, tearing.

His back was to the sorcerer and his allies, but he could sense the dwindling in Rasputin's aura, how it shuddered and grew weak, becoming a thin line around him, barely seeable. He was inches from death, killed by death itself.

While Saint-Germain had no problem killing the sorcerer, he knew, just _knew_, that he should be killed in honor. If not, his shade would be forced to walk this earth for all eternity until Armageddon. He turned and rushed towards William Blake and rested his hand on his shoulder, his aura flaring, the smell of burnt leaves radiating through the air. William's aura shuddered and grew faint as he turned to look at Saint-Germain. He nodded as they came to a silent understanding, and the count turned and ran back down towards the shuddering man.

His figure had been twisted and deformed, and it took Saint-Germain all his strength not to grimace and turn away from the ugly sight. Rasputin lifted his head, his drooping and bloodshot eyes, which had once been black and pitiless, now were a soft pale color that seemed to beg Saint-Germain to kill him, to end the pain.

Joan walked up behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder. "You must do it. No other can," she murmured softly as she handed him a glittering silver sword created from her pure silver aura.

He took it and glanced at the French words written on them. He quickly translated them and smiled to himself. They had, in Joan's hand, said: _Brighten the darkness, shy away the shadows, and bring Light to the world through honor and the Lord. _He had known about how history stated that she could communicate with the Saints and Angels, and, rarely, with God himself. They had never talked about it – he felt it was a tender subject for her – although he suspected that it was true. But now, holding the blade, he knew with every essence of his being that the rumors were true.

But now, with his aura crackling along the sword, melting it into a beautiful half-silver, half-bronze color, the words shifted and changed. He stared at them, smiling to himself. They read: _Entwined as One, pulled together by Fate, bound by Love, We are Eternal. We are Forever. _He turned his head to see Joan looking over his shoulder, reading the words as well. She smiled as she pulled away, kissing him on the cheek as she turned and ran back to where the Warrior fought, William assisting where he could.

"Do…it…please…I beg…you…" Rasputin gasped, his breath shallow and heaving.

Francis le Comte de Saint-Germain raised the blade, shaped from the auras of both his and Joan's, and, in one solid, fluent motion, brought it down on Grigory Rasputin, ending his life; breaking the ties that would bind him to this world as a ghost; sending him into the light.

Although Saint-Germain had a feeling that Rasputin was going somewhere much hotter…..


	20. The Reckoning

Scathach pushed harder than ever, spinning, striking, twisting, clashing, fighting. Penthiselea, like all the other Amazons, had a rare ability: they could see a move done in battle or otherwise, and copy it exactly. Also, once they saw a fighting style or battle strategy, they could automatically become expertly trained against that move in seconds, allowing to be never taken by surprise. They were the ultimate warriors.

The Warrior tried a new style of fighting after every time she clashed swords with the Queen of the Amazons. She knew that if she used her strange no-style of fighting, than Penthiselea would immediately learn it, and she needed to be able to surprise her with it later if she had any chance of destroying the warrior woman.

Saint-Germain stood outside, Joan of Arc at his side, watching the burning body of Rasputin. William Blake joined them, surprised to see that news of the attack on the cathedral had not reached the public and police. There were no cop cars outside the chapel, nor reporters, not even pedestrian walked by. They all thought it strange, but then again, what could be stranger than what they had gone through, and the battle still wasn't over, not yet…

When there was nothing more than ashes, the three skidded into the cathedral once more to find Scathach jumping off balconies, balancing on pews, dancing across the isles. Penthiselea would immediately mimic the maneuver, adding more to it, making the move all the more deadly.

Then the cold came.

Ice crystals coated all of theirs skin, icicles forming from columns, the bottom and back of benches, and chandeliers just to name a few. Cold-laced winds ripped through the cathedral, created by some unnatural force. Their vision went blue-tinged – although that may have actually been the room – and goosebumps erupted over all of their arms.

Saint-Germain immediately warped fire into existence, which wrapped up his arms, weaving intricate patterns, and whirled around to face the door, expecting to see Rasputin standing there. But the doors were shut tight, ice-locked to each other and the walls. Joan's aura cracked alight as she coated herself in armor, wielding her sparkling silver sword, and William began chattering to invisible ghosts, communicating with them.

"They say it is the Cold One, or the Dark Goddess," he explained to them, relaying what the spirits told him. "They say she comes from the World of Darkness, Niflheim, but they know not why she has come."

Joan smiled to herself, lowering her sword. "I know why she has come…" The two looked at her, puzzled looks on their faces. She looked at each in turn, and her small grin faded. "Don't you know?" She rolled her eyes. "When Rasputin first attacked our home," she explained, motioning to her husband, "he explained to me that he had gleaned the Secret of Ice…" she paused, seeing if they had made the connection, "…from the Elder _Hel._"

"Aaah," William and Saint-Germain said in unison. They knew of Hel and her deadly ways. Of course, recently, Niflheim had been destroyed with the Yggdrasill, releasing Nidhogg, but the Shadowrealm's ruler had escaped, and last any of them had heard, she was hunting down Dr. John Dee. But now she had come to take back the Secret of Ice. She had most likely felt the immediate release of its power the moment Rasputin had died.

They watched in front of them as wind, laced with deadly snow and ice, swirled into a tall, cocoon like shape. Then, solidifying, Hel, the Dark Goddess, appeared, her blake-blue skin terrifying against her solid white eyes. Her dark gray dress shifted and twisted, and, for a moment, they could see faces and images flowing through them. Hel had made her wardrobe from the evil souls that were sent to her realm, and most likely they were in eternal torment just by being near the Elder.

The goddess made no sound as she bent low to the ground at the spot where Rasputin had been killed. She rested her hand against the cold ground and said something in the Elder Tongue that sounded more like mosquitoes buzzing than words. Then, in long, swirling tendrils of energy, cerulean light flowed up from the ground, light blue sparks dancing around it. It flowed up her arms and absorbed into her skin at her shoulder. Then her aura sparked alight, blue and black encircling her in a nimbus of light, black spots in her aura giving it sharp contrast to the glowing sapphire.

She stood, and, in one swift motion, she whirled around and phased _through_ the ice doors, and then she was gone. No words, no thank-you, no nothing; she just took the Secret of Ice and left, leaving the room smell like ozone from how much power she radiated. There was a sharp pull in the air, like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room, and then all of their visions went fuzzy, and, when they recovered, the Cathedral of Notre Dame was iceless, back to normal.

There was a sharp scream from outside, and Joan hurried and flung the tall doors open, squinting at the sudden rush of light. Then, a swift, glowing semi-hominoid figure was slung past her, leaving a trail of energy as the comet crashed through the cathedral. Joan whirled around to see Anne Boleyn in a lumped ball on the ground, myriad wounds scattered across her body.

Prometheus stepped through the doors. He look at Joan's face, and then at Saint-Germain and William Blake. "I caught her outside. She was working dark magic: she was attempting to completely destroy this cathedral, and possibly all of the Ile de la Cite. I dealt with her easily, but I suspected you might have wanted to finish the job," he said, looking Joan with a smile. "I also have put a glamour over the cathedral so that none can see what happens. Also, the memory of them," he said, jutting his chin in the direction of the four humans in the back of the chapel who now lay slumped and unconscious on the ground, "has been altered. They will remember nothing. We Elders have worked too hard to keep ourselves secret from you humani to have it all destroyed by you two," he said, staring at Joan and Saint-Germain. A sharp wind suddenly whipped through the chapel, and when they opened their eyes, the three saw that Prometheus was gone, for good this time.

Joan strode to where Anne Boleyn lay twitching on the ground. She lifted her large sword high in the air, her face stern and expressionless. "And now I will finish what I thought I had done right centuries ago…" And she brought the sword down on Anne Boleyn's neck, repeating the exact same death sentence she had done so long ago…

* * *

But throughout all of this, they did not see Scathach and Penthiselea's battle move outside as the two warriors fought, moving and shifting, striking at each other, trying to kill the other. No, they did not see this, and regret for that would haunt them for the rest of their lives…..


	21. The Losing

Scathach risked a sidelong glance behind her at the Cathedral of Notre Dame. She and Penthiselea were moving farther and farther away from it; and the Shadow's allies. Would they know where she went? Would they be able to follow her faint aura trail? If something, Odin forbid, happen to her, would they be able to find her body? Would they even be able to find her at all?

Penthiselea swung at Scathach with her two blades, but Scatty held up one sword horizontally, leaving her right blade free to maim the Amazon. She swung in; grazing her side, emerald blood seeped from the wound, turning her animal-skin clothes around the wound an ugly green. Scathach did not purposely kill her there, no; it would take much more to kill the Queen of the Amazons. She would need to wound her over and over again, weaken her, and then she could deliver the final blow that would be ultimately fatal.

Penthiselea back away, her olive toned hand falling to her gushing wound. She touched it, and then lifted her blood-stained hand to her face, her face fixed into an expression of fear. Never, in all of her millennia, had she, the Queen of the Amazons, been wounded.

They had grown closer to the Seine by now, and they fought only feet from the sharp drop-off into the rushing waters below. The water gurgled and gushed, making almost human sounds, calling to them, whispering to them. Scathach figured that there were creatures within not only the Seine, but every river. Ever stream and flowing river had its horned guardian, and that guardian had daughters, the Naiads. And then there were the Sirens, but she had never heard of them this far away from the ocean. They last large settlement of Sirens lived among a colony of Mer-people off the coast of Denmark. She shook her head clearing it; she was distracting herself, and distractions were, in the end, the fall of almost everyone. And the Warrior Maid was not ready to die . . .not yet.

Penthiselea had become enraged. A crazed fire burned in her eyes, making her look mad and deranged. Why, Scathach wondered, were all but one of Joan and Saint-Germain's attackers insane? The Amazon fought with a newfound energy, drawing from it to give her a driving force. She swung the hunting blades expertly, filling the air with the earthy scent of her aura as green and brown coils of mist-like auric energy flowed from her hands.

Scathach fought back powerfully and skillfully, but then Penthiselea feinted right, and dove left. Scatty saw the move coming, and leaned to the other side, only to see the Amazon go back to striking at the right! Scathach hadn't the time to block before Penthiselea swung in with her deadly blades. With her back to the Seine, her heels resting over the edge, the water seemed to call to her, to warp and twist to welcome her, but she would fight, and she would kill the Queen of the Amazons if it were the last thing she did.

In a last desperate attempt to strike back, Scathach, the Warrior, the Shadow, the King Maker, and the Daemon Slayer, lashed out with her deadly curved blades . . .

* * *

"Where's Scathach?" Joan suddenly asked urgently, spinning around, searching for her blood-sister. "Where is she?"

"Penthiselea is gone too," William observed.

"Oh no, oh no oh no oh no oh no! No no no no!" Joan said frantically. Even though the Warrior was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, the haunting words of the prophecy came back to her. Two had died – Grigory Rasputin and Anne Boleyn – and that meant that still one more would die and still another would be "lost", and Joan had a haunting feeling of which one Scathach would be . . .

"We have to find her," Saint-Germain said absolutely serious. He looked at Joan and nodded: they shared the same concern for their beloved Scathach. He closed his eyes, focusing his aura. One advantage of Fire Magic was being able to track down fire and heat, to see inferred light. And that was what he was doing now: searching for the green-blue cool light coming from Scathach, and the intense fiery red and purple from Penthiselea. There it was, by the Seine . . . The Seine, right where Scathach had disappeared last time . . .

He opened his eyes, seeing William and Joan looking at him with worried expressions on their faces.

"What did you see, Francis? Did you find them?" Joan asked, hysteria seeping into her voice.

"Yes, my dear," He said, comforting her. "Follow me." He led them through a door in the back of the Cathedral. They had to weave in and out of large columns – and the unconscious humani who still lay slumped on the ground – until they could actually reach the door.

But it was already too late to save the Shadow.

* * *

By the time the three got down to the edge of the Seine, the battle was already over. Water coated the edge of the sudden drop-off into the river, like someone had fallen in . . .

When Joan of Arc saw the limp, lifeless body lying on the soaked cobblestone, she fell to her knees, sobbing. The body had a large blade sticking out of it, glinting in the morning sun. The beautiful day seemed to mock them, to laugh at their defeat and tear at the wounds left to them emotionally and mentally.

William walked past Saint-Germain, who was on his knees, comforting his wife, his eyes glinting slightly with tears, and he walked to where the body was, his hand over his mouth, preparing himself to see the neon green eyes and fire-red hair.

But that's not what he saw.

It was Penthiselea lying on the wet earth, Scathach's sword protruding from her heart. Her torso was coated in emerald blood that seemed to boil and steam: the blood of the Amazons. He withdrew the sword, which came of smoothly, making sticky noises as it slid out of her body. He held it up, examining it, and then walked over to where Joan and Saint-Germain crouched.

"She would've wanted you to have this," William Blake said, a small smile on his face.

Joan looked up, her eyes bloodshot and cheeks flushed, tears streaming down her face, and she took the sword. She sniffled as she studied it. "This is Scathach's sword," she said, puzzled.

Saint-Germain looked up at William's face. "It is not Scathach's body?"

He shook his head, smiling. "No, my friend, it is Penthiselea's, Queen of the Amazons. She is dead, killed in combat by the Warrior Maid."

The couple stood up and trudged over to where to body lay. Joan spat on her cheek, and then turned away, unwilling to look at her. Saint-Germain bent low, checking for a pulse, and finding none.

"But Scathach . . .?" He began, looking at William Blake.

He smiled. "The Warrior is lost. She was thrown back into the Seine from where she came forth in this battle. She was most likely swept away by the current."

A small grin appeared on Joan's face. "She hates getting wet."

"Aye, she does."

"Then do you know where she is off to next?" Saint-Germain said with assurance. William shook his head. "Scathach, our beloved, is off to find Nicholas Flamel and the Twins of Legend."


	22. The Finding

**One Day Later….**

Joan of Arc and Comte de Saint-Germain stood by the edge of the Seine where their beloved friend and ally had fallen into the waters below. Joan bent low and laid the bouquet of flowers – cherry blossoms mainly, Scathach's favorites – where the Warrior Maid had fallen in. She wiped a tear away from her eye as she stood back up, Saint-Germain holding her close. They were in the dismal state of mourning.

William Blake cleared his throat behind them. Joan and Saint-Germain turned around. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question, grinning, he held out his arms.

Joan smiled, laughing quietly to herself. "Oh William, you don't need to be released from helping us, you may leave if you wish."

He nodded his head, lifting her hand to his lips. "Joan of Arc, I am a man of honor and class, of dignity and poise . . ."

"And also a ladies-man," Saint-Germain muttered.

" . . . and I would never leave the company of a beautiful, respected lady such as yourself without your blessing."

She shook her head, her lips twisted into an awkward smile. "Well then, William Blake, I release you from your bonds."

Saint-Germain chuckled to himself. "You always were one for the theatrics. Good-Bye William, thank-you infinitely for your invaluable assistance."

"Good-Bye," Joan whispered to herself, hold her husband close as she watched him disappear in the looming shadows. She turned back towards Saint-Germain. "So . . . what's next? Are we going to fight the Witch of Endor or Danu? Or maybe we could try arm-wrestling Mars Ultor?" He looked down at her, perplexed. "Oh, you're not telling me our wonderful adventures end here?"

He laughed again, louder this time at his wife's sarcasm and pulled her close. "I was thinking a nice vacation to Hawaii, what do you think?" Joan's expression grew dark, and she looked away. "What is it, love, what's wrong?"

"I knew I would have to tell you, and I guess now would be as best time a time as any . . ."

"What're you talking about? You're beginning to scare me," Saint-Germain said frantically, holding Joan out at arm's length and looking her in the eye.

She stood on her toes and kissed him, sparks of power and tendrils of energy coiling between them, their auras snapping alight around them. "We belong together, forever, right?" She asked.

He shook his head. "No, not forever; for _eternity_," he said with a smile. Joan grinned as well as she looked out across the Seine. She seemed distant, her mind pulled elsewhere. After a few minutes of silence, she turned back to Saint-Germain, kissed him, and said two words that would change their lives for the better forever.

"I'm pregnant."


	23. Epilogue

_I am Francis le Comte de Saint-Germain, Master of Fire._

_Now the story of me and my beloved Joan of Arc is over, although another tale is just unfolding. Through our tumultuous battles, attacks, clashes, and sieges, we have withstood. We did not run, we did not retreat; we stood and fought, and we destroyed those who dared threaten us._

_But now that is over._

_I and Joan could not stay at our summer home: it held to many memories – good and bad – for us. So we left it, giving the property to an orphanage whose old building burned down only days ago. We still remain in Paris, the City of Lights, but we now live on Illumina, or the Ile de la Cite, in the Place Dauphine, and we regularly go to the Cathedral of Notre Dame to light a candle in the memory of Scathach. Although she is not dead, she is in our prayers, even though she does not need them._

_William Blake left Paris to go to St. Petersburg to seek out the family of last Romanov dynasty, who, rumor tell, achieved immortality and lay in hiding. Perhaps, with their old ally and nemesis, Grigory Rasputin, gone, they will reawaken from incognito, but that is another tale, another story for another time._

_Prometheus has abandoned his Shadowrealm at the edge of the Seine and has gone to the dense jungles of the Congo to colonize the people there who have never seen another man besides of their own. I have also heard that the Witch of Endor has gone with him, leaving Ojai, but I do not know for certain._

_I now write these words by hand in the waiting room of the hospital, nine months after the Arc of Fire occurred. I find it rather ironic how it took a night for our enemies to change our lives forever, but nine months for me to record what happened. And now I am writing the story of me and Joan, of our tale, of our story, and it is almost complete._

_My dearest wife has given birth to our child, a beautiful boy with fiery red hair and sparkling silver eyes. He has, as the Witch of Endor would say, a touch of greatness about him. But I fear that the future holds only despair for him, but for now, he is peaceful and sleeping in another room, dreaming dreams of light and color._

_We named him William._


	24. Author's Note

The idea for the Arc of Fire came to me while I was on (go there, it rocks) and I saw a picture someone had done of Francis le Comte de Saint-Germain, and…it…was…awesome! The picture was just sooooooooo cool! And so that made me like Saint-Germain more, but then I was flippin' through the Magician (amazing book!) and saw some cool parts about him and his wife, Joan of Arc, and decided to read more. Obviously, by now, I was hooked.

The title of the story you are currently reading: The Arc of Fire is basically just a mix between Joan and Saint-Germain. _Arc_, from Joan of Arc, and _Fire_ from Saint-Germain being the Master of Fire. As simple as that is, isn't it a coot title? Oh yeah, and the title makes ABSOLUTELY no sense whatsoever.

I had planned to take a break from writing for a while after I had finished Hekate: the Aftermath Chronicles, but I couldn't wait. The idea of the Arc of Fire and all its characters were already infused into my brain, and I couldn't pause for a second. So I flipped through the Magician (some more) and looked for a section I really liked to put as the Prologue. You see, as with Hekate, I, naturally, used the last chapter with her in it that held her death as well, but with Saint-Germain and Joan I could pick what I wanted the Prologue to be. I decided to actually make the prologue longer, putting the entire lesson where Sophie learns Fire Magic, but copying paper onto the computer is a strenuous amount of work that people don't understand how hard it is…and boring. So the prologue was shortened, but I think it turned out nice, don't you?

Chapter 2, Dark Premonitions, was really just a chapter to reflect on what happened to them in the Magician. And, if some of you haven't noticed, starting a story is a very heinous task, that few ever succeed with perfectly, and this chapter was like the kick to start my story, which it obviously did well, you're still reading, aren't ya'?

Aaaaaah, Grigory Rasputin, the famous sorcerer. Rasputin always fascinated me, sort of like how Dr. John Dee fascinated Michael Scott, but he was (or would it be "is"?) always the bad guy and even reading about him even strengthens my distrust for him. But he seemed like the prefect character in a story where immortal humans were the center point, so, I figured, why not? Giving him the Secret of Ice from the Elder Hel was simple: Hel, the goddess of the underworld and the icy realm of Nifliheim in Norse Mythology was ideal to originally have the Secret of Ice, or Ice Magic, and giving it to Rasputin seemed natural for him growing up in the icy land of Siberia and Russia and all. His being an enemy of Saint-Germain was a sketchy business: you don't learn much (nor shall you) but they weren't enemies long, Rasputin being born in the 20th century and all, so Saint-Germain must have done something REALLY bad to make him hate him so much in such short time. And last but not least about the immortal, he became immortal, like Saint-Germain, by just obtaining the Secret of Ice, simple.

The spells used by both Joan and Rasputin were completely of my own devise, incantations that came straight from my overactive imagination and put down on paper (or would it be keyboard…hmmmm…). The fight scene is rather lame, but if you recall, Rasputin just wanted Saint-Germain (fire and ice, natural enemies), and Joan's mind was working the whole time, trying to figure out other things, so, obviously, the fight wasn't very soulful.

Prometheus' Shadowrealm being at the edge of the Seine was rather simple: I needed the Elder to come into the story quickly, and something had to happen to Saint-Germain while he was there. BAM! It was perfect. Saint-Germain was first-and-foremost an alchemist, and seeing few chances to do so, I inquired those effects as much as possible, and transmutation is one of the basic principals of alchemy: changing one thing into another. And so, the Elder fell (more like slid. Hee hee) into the river.

When Joan realized that the Amazons (or more like _Amazon_) were coming to Paris, she needed to know more, seeing no reason before as wanting to learn about the brutal race. So she ran to her library, which actually never existed in the Magician, but then again, how many rooms actually were listed, hmm? The history of the Amazons was completely of my own devise, and connecting them to the Disir seemed almost meant to be: two all woman races, both extremely warlike, both hating Scathach the Warrior. Perfect. And this is where Saint-Germain finds Joan, and they are reunited for basically the rest of the story: so that was a key point, write that down, there may be a test later. ;)

Anne Boleyn, deranged and insane ex-queen from England. Who wouldn't want to put her in a story? While sightings of her ghost have circulated for centuries, they _obviously _were just lies, because, turns out, she is alive and well, the servant of one of the most feared Elders of all, Kali.

The battle between the six was the first battle in the story (the battle between Joan and Rasputin, and then Prometheus and Saint-Germain were more fights than battles). Penthiselea bringing the Amphithere was fun, being able to use a creature, even though the description of the monster took longer than the creature was actually in the story…But whatever! Describing its history and bringing in the illusive Quetzalcoatl was fun too. But, of course, the battle had to end, and the odds were titled into the enemy's favor, so Joan did the last thing she could: concentrated all of her aura…and exploded, creating a supernova of energy. Of course, Saint-Germain helps, getting rid of the last of their invaders. But, alas, they must find help, and that's when they inquire of the not so famous William Blake.

He was actually a painter; an amazing one at that. Go on Google, look him up, I love his work. And when he was alive (again, is it was or is it "is"?) he was obsessed with death! He actually did see ghosts and seemed to be…different. He exhibited the exact same things that Perenelle Flamel did before she met the Alchemyst himself, and so, I gave him the exact same aura as the Sorceress, giving him the same effects: seeing dead people (anyone who's seen "The Sixth Sense" would've smiled at that). But the Cradle of Life bit was of, obviously, my own devise. Even with him and Scathach on their side, the odds were still in favor of the bad guys, so I _had_ to make William immune to Elder Magic, which, Rasputin controlling the Secret of Ice, a variety of Elder Magic, and Prometheus and Penthiselea being Elders, only Anne Boleyn could harm him. Genius!

Bringing Scathach back into the picture was a last minute thing. There didn't seem to be enough…drama in the story. So I brought her back in, but, alas, I bet that Scathach's going to find Nicholas and the twins in the Sorceress, but hey, who's to say she took a quick break and helped her friends first?

Despite what it looks like, the four enemies _did not _join together to destroy Saint-Germain and Joan of Arc, it was just even more coincidence…The four just all were at different sides of the mansion at the exact same time, and, at the exact same time, decided to attack…at the same time. Weird how that works, huh? Coincidence…? You be the judge of that.

The Siege was the attack (or siege) on William Blake's mansion. The paring of enemies with allies was simple: Rasputin and Saint-Germain: Fire and Ice, natural enemies. Scathach and Penthiselea: Both warriors, they would both fight it out instead of using magic _anyway_. Joan of Arc and Anne Boleyn: Really, Anne was the other one who wanted to kill Joan; she wasn't going to willingly attack William. Prometheus and William Blake: Prometheus is full-blooded Elder, and uses powerful Elder Magic, so I set up the most immune to Elder Magic up against the a powerful Elder. Now I know what Saint-Germain did to Rasputin was a little harsh, burning to an ugly crisp, yeah, harsh, but hey, Rasputin wanted to do worse to him, so the better side won…right...right? Anne Boleyn having the Rabbit's Foot was an idea I had from the beginning, but incorporating it was a last minute thing. I figured, she was _insane_! So, she would surely be a horrible sorceress and an even worse fighter, so she needed luck. Ta da! Joan joining Scathach against Penthiselea was stated simply in the story:

"_I was always a fighter, not a magician; my place is here, in the battle, standing by you."_

_Scatty smiled and, if they could flow, tears would've streamed down her face in happiness. "Not 'by me', you will fight with me."_

So there; they are actual blood-sisters, literally, and so they are close, close enough to die together. Thankfully, they didn't die; but Joan had the rabbit's foot the whole time, so I think they would've turned out ok.

I had so much fun writing chapter 16: Revelations! I got to create so much of the Elder World and put in my own ideas and thoughts, creating a universe that was connected to Michael Scott's, but still of my own design. So much of that chapter was completely of my own devise. The part about the pagan temple and the Romans using the site as a fort was true about the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Those things really happened. But the other stuff…well, who am I to say they did or didn't? All in all, the chapter was an immense pleasure writing, and I hope you loved reading it.

The Cathedral of Notre Dame was based entirely on what I have seen in only pictures. As a matter of fact, I have never even been to Paris, but I have been to the outskirts of France once. So the whole creation of the chapel was based on imagination and what I saw in books and pictures. I doubt I got much right, but then again, if everything was exactly as the books say, what fun would writing be?  
Prometheus is a careful fellow. He repaired the part of the cathedral that Anne Boleyn destroyed in her melodramatic entrance, and he stood down when Scathach refused to. While he made it look like he just didn't want to harm his niece, the truth was, he feared the Warrior. Hah! The little man stood no chance against the Next Generation, despite his profound knowledge and power; he probably would have been killed by the Shadow in the end.

Rasputin, in the Siege, was burned horrible by Saint-Germain, but the damage wasn't identified or even seen until he tracked them back to the Cathedral. Noticed how all these people move really fast? Well, Paris is an ancient land, and it had myriad ley lines that not only connect to millions of locations around the world, but also to each other, and one could easily step from one side of Paris to the other in an instant. So Rasputin got there fast, and with a nasty little vengeance and greater insanity than even the great Anne Boleyn. Let's just say, he was TICKED OFF. Naturally of course, you would be too.

Even for being deformed and mutilated, the little sucker could move quite fast. He dodged and moved out of the myriad energy shots spun out by Joan, William and Saint-Germain. I never liked him. Well, that's not true; I find him fascinating and terrifying. But hey, go on Wikipedia and look him up, he has a fascinating life. GO THE ROMANOVS!!! (Look him up, you'll know who the Romanovs are then).

William could contact ghosts. The end. What more needs to be said? Seriously. I gave him that aura because when he was alive, he was obsessed with death. So, naturally, I made him one with the dead, a Spiritspeaker, a Medium, whatever you wanna call it. And, using that power, he commanded (more like influenced) the ghosts around him to attack Rasputin. Which, obviously, they did. Yay ghosties!!!

Being killed by the dead is honorless, and, without honor, passing into the Afterlife is kinda hard. Saint-Germain knew that, so, he was going to kill hi instead, for there is no shame in dying by the hand of a warrior. And, in the slightest text, Saint-Germain _is_ a warrior.

The words on Joan's sword I made up. The first is just supposed to sound all glory and honor and stuff, just like Joan of Arc, but they second was suppose to be lovey dovey. Entwining the two auras together to make a sword spun their love into it, making it even more powerful.

Joan of Arc _really_ could talk to Angels, Saints, and sometimes even God himself. I believe she could, and there is no evidence to say that she couldn't. I think it's kinda sad how Michael Scott didn't put any of that into the Magician. But then again, if he did, then those annoying people would complain, and we'd have to deal with them. UGH! I hate people. Well, not you guys, and not Michael Scott, and there are a lot of historical figures who are awesome…ok, so maybe I don't hate people. BUT I HATE A LOT OF THEM OK!?

Dead. Rasputin, finally, was dead. I'm sure that made a lot of you happy. Lol, jk. Well, I'm sure sonofdemeter was happy, he hates the Dark Elders, and, even though he wasn't allied with them, I'm pretty sure Rasputin qualifies as "dark". But he died honorably, so he gets to go to Heaven. But I agree with Saint-Germain: I think that little sucker is going to HELL!!!

The Reckoning, aaah (see a pattern yet?): The time when there was Hel on Earth. Heehee, get it? Hel? Like Hell? Get it? Never mind . . . I put in a much earlier chapter that Rasputin had gleaned (*cough* *cough* stole *cough*) the Secret of Ice from the horrible Elder. And now that there was nothing standing in her way, she was coming to take it back. And she did, turning the Cathedral of Notre Dame into a living ice-cube.

Awww! Prometheus was such a good little boy when he kicked Anne Boleyn's (insert swear word here)!!! Lol. But really, he felt kinda bad about the whole "I wanna murder you and absorb the power from your bones" so he helped. But Joan (oh Joan, doesn't she just rock your socks off?) decapitated her. Let's hope we don't have to go through ANOTHER putting-the-head-back-on thing with the ex-queen, I don't think us humani can take it! And yes, to confirm all of your suspicions (well, those of you who were smart enough to figure it out), Anne Boleyn, brilliant blue-eyed and raven haired, is the woman in "The Taken: Part 2" of Hekate: the Aftermath Chronicles. At the end, a woman, described as having the same looks as Anne Boleyn brings in the backup that comes in too late to Dr. John Dee, and, well, she practically punched him in his gut, that probably would've been less painful than what she said to him. Yes, now I bet your going to go to Hekate: the Aftermath Chronicles (wow, that's a lot to type) and look it up. Yeah, you know you were, don't deny it! And yes, almostinsane, I DO like leaving cliffhangers, it keeps you coming back and reading. I don't wanna flatter myself, but I think I'm pretty freakin' good at it!

Sigh…Dear, dear Scathach. A moment of silence for the Warrior . . . .

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Ok, back to the story! So, Scathach just came into the same fate that she did in the Magician. Hmm, weird how that worked huh? *Wink* Wink*. Hey, I HAD to leave wiggle-room in case Scathach DID come back in the Sorceress (I can't wait! UGH!! I WANNA READ IT SOOOOO BAD!!). But she's not dead, but I bet she's (insert swear word) off! She hates getting wet ya' know.

OMG!!! JOAN OF ARC IS PREGNANT!?!? WTF!!?? HUH!?!? SOMEONE EXPLAIN!!! I NEED TO KNOW MORE!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Most likely one of those were one of the things that you either said in your head or out loud, making everyone stare at you, when you read the ending of 'The Finding". Oh yeah, I was shocked too, AND I WROTE IT!!! It was actually a last minute thing I thought up only hours before I wrote it. And all you girls out there who are reading this: Don't worry! She wasn't pregnant for long! So the fighting and stuff did not hurt sweet little William. The baby, not the artist. But we're gonna get off the subject of pregnancy before it starts getting even more awkward. And yes, that _is_ possible.

Ok, I'm about to say something that I will regret, but this is an Author's Note, so I should say it. Did anyone else (probably not, just me) ALMOST cry at the end of the Epilogue? Yeah, I know, I almost cried at the end of my own story . . .AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHY!!!! Anyway, message me or review and tell me if you cried too. BECAUSE I DID! My eyes got all teary-eyed and stuff, I didn't actually cry, but I almost did. And the ending isn't even sad! But anyway, I almost cried, yes, and tell me everyone if you cried (or almost did) too because I wanna know it's not just me! LOL.

The Epilogue was written by Francis le Comte de Saint-Germain and simply explained the events after the Arc of Fire. Alas, in the words of sonofdemeter: All good things must come to an end. Although that was said by many before him, I just wanted to add my BIGGEST FAN (I hope you're not offended when I call you that…) in more of my story. The Arc of Fire, great, epic, and looooooong! It is complete.

God Save Michael Scott,

Shaneltz

p.s. My little signing off thing, well, I thought about the fact that if Michael Scott dies, WE WILL ALL DIE! Because, really, can any of us survive if we don't know what happens in the rest of the Alchemyst series? I swear, if there is a bus coming down the street while he is crossing it, MOVE MICHAEL SCOTT, MOVE!!! Please don't get hit by a bus or bit by a deadly, poisonous snake, we can't take it. Don't die. Do it for the people. Do it for your biggest fans: Us (but mainly me, your biggest fan, lol). Go the Alchemyst!


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